


From the Ashes

by bainsidhe



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon Divergence, Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2018-04-11 09:59:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 163,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4430924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bainsidhe/pseuds/bainsidhe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moira Cousland is a reluctant Grey Warden, torn unwillingly from her dying parents' side to fulfill an ancient obligation. Loghain Mac Tir was once the greatest living hero in Ferelden, until his betrayal of King Cailan at Ostagar sparked a civil war. Now, he is the only man who can help Moira stop the Blight... but can she learn to trust him in time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Landsmeet

"Well, what are you _waiting_ for? He killed Duncan! Just _kill him already_!"

Alistair's words, delivered with far more passion than she'd ever heard from her normally feckless friend, sliced through her thoughts like a keen blade. It had been a hard battle, and she bled from more than one wound; but there he was, kneeling before her, submitting to her mercy. Loghain, the regicide, the betrayer of Ferelden. The man who had abandoned her and the army at Ostagar, and who had spent the past many months trying very earnestly to kill or thwart her at every turn. And, of course, he had allied himself with that vile snake Howe and had turned a blind eye to the arl's massacre of her entire family. Alistair did have a point. She couldn't really give a damn less for Duncan, to be honest; but for all his other sins, surely Loghain Mac Tir deserved to die.

And yet Moira Cousland did not swing her blade.

She would never be able to say precisely why she showed him mercy that day. She had always been taught that an honorable warrior does not strike down a foe who asks for quarter, of course. But also, Anora was right. This man was a hero – or had been one, once. It seemed… wrong to cut him down like a dog as he knelt on the floor of the Landsmeet chambers, while his daughter looked on in horror. Moira would not inflict the pain of watching a beloved father die on anyone.

Her deliberation was short-lived, at any rate: scarcely before she'd had time to process Alistair's words, another voice rang through the Landsmeet chambers.

"Wait! There is another option!" There could only be one Orlesian man who had cause to be present at the Landsmeet; and surely enough, Riordan broke through the crowd, striding purposefully towards her.

"Let him undertake the Joining."

Moira eyed the Grey Warden warily. The Joining… he meant to conscript Loghain?

"What? No! Have you forgotten how Loghain betrayed us _all_? I will not call this… _man_ my brother! I won't!" Alistair exploded.

Moira held Riordan's gaze, studiously avoiding Alistair's eyes. Alistair had never been entirely rational where Loghain or Duncan were concerned, and she had the uncanny feeling that all Ferelden's future hung in the balance based on the decisions she would have to make in the next few minutes. She avoided, too, looking at the now-half-standing form of Loghain, who was clearly rather confused that he still lived.

"Why? Why put him through the Joining?" she asked carefully. This _was_ , after all, the man who had attempted to kill them repeatedly. While she'd had reservations about executing him on the spot, she wasn't quite ready to extend to him a welcoming hand and invite him to join the Wardens on their crusade, either.

"Because there are only three of us in all of Ferelden," Riordan explained. "And… we may need as many Wardens as possible to defeat the archdemon."

"The Joining is often fatal, is it not?" Anora chimed in, her usual haughty reserve wavering ever so slightly. "There you have your answer. If he lives, you gain a great general to fight the darkspawn. If he dies, you have your revenge. Does that not satisfy you?"

"No, it does not," Alistair said, his voice uncharacteristically edged with steel. "The Joining is an honor, not a punishment! You make him a Warden, and you cheapen us all! You can't seriously be considering this, can you?"

And yet, and yet. She _was_ seriously considering it. At last, she chanced a glance at Loghain, and found him staring at her intently, his expression inscrutable. He knew that, despite the bickering back and forth between Alistair, Anora, and Riordan, that it was she, Moira, who would be the final arbiter of his fate. It was she whom he had challenged in a duel, and she who had overcome him – and she to whom he'd given his grudging respect when her blade had at last struck home, sending him to the ground.

 _You are not like Cailan, a child playing at war._ He had even compared her to Maric, the king at whose side he had liberated Ferelden from Orlesian domination. She did not imagine compliments came readily from the taciturn general, let alone comparisons to his old friend and comrade. Loghain's gracious, if grudging, praise stood in stark contrast to Rendon Howe's final moments, with which he'd mocked Moira's dead family and cursed her with his dying breath. Why would a man with such a robust sense of honor as Loghain so debase himself by consorting with such fiends as Howe? How could the man who had dedicated his entire life to Ferelden be the architect of its schism? Loghain was a paradox if ever she'd encountered one, and that nettled her.

 _Who are you, really?_ she thought as she stared at his unchanging countenance. _The Hero of the River Dane and savior of Ferelden, or a deserter and a king-killer? King Maric's best friend and trusted general, or the betrayer and murderer of his only legitimate son? Patriot, or traitor?_

Of course, he was all of those things. She held his life in her hands now, and yet he did not beg or entreat her; there was no plea for mercy, no last-minute mea culpa, no attempted explanations or justifications for his actions. He merely held her gaze, steadily, awaiting her decision. Having seen many men die, she knew that few faced their end so stoically. He was unrepentant; or, perhaps, he believed that whatever penance he had to offer was for the Maker's ears alone. And that was when she knew she could not kill him.

"I think Riordan is right," she said carefully. "I think we should put him through the Joining. We do need all the Wardens we can get." She could not bring herself to look at Alistair as she said the words, knowing that he would see them, despite her intentions, as a deeply personal betrayal.

And so he did. "No! You can't do this! I won't stand for it!" he bellowed. "I'll – " he paused, hesitating briefly before committing himself to the thing which he had dreaded most. "I'll do it. I'll take the crown. I'll be king, if that's what it takes to see Loghain get justice."

"Listen to him!" Anora shrilled. "He is putting his selfish desires over what is best for Ferelden! He would be a disastrous king – surely you can see that!"

Now all eyes, it seemed, were looking straight at Moira. Alistair seemed a stranger; never before had she seen such fire in his eyes, and there were no traces of the callow juvenility that he usually adopted with such practiced ease. Anora was as imperious as ever, but Moira saw the real fear lurking beneath her carefully composed countenance. Riordan watched impassively, waiting for her to make her decree. Eamon seemed impatient, as if wondering why she was taking so long to proclaim Alistair the rightful king. And Loghain – his expression had not altered in the slightest. He looked steadfastly at her, neither angry nor afraid, and she could see that he was resigned to whatever judgment she delivered. It was almost as if – but perhaps she was reading too much into things –

 _Almost as if he is giving me permission_. Of all the souls in the room – only he, of all people, understood the full weight of responsibility that was now pressing, heavy and unwanted, upon her shoulders.

"I'm sorry, Alistair," she said. "You yourself know that Anora will be the better sovereign. And Riordan is right. We need all the help we can get. We need Loghain."

"Need him?" Alistair's voice was low and dangerous. "We _need_ him like we need stabbed in the back! Or have you already forgotten?"

"Alistair – "

"How you could do this?" he said, anguished. "How could you pick _him_ over _me_?" His face was riven with pain, and Moira's stomach twisted into knots as she began to realize the full price of her decision.

"Alistair, it's not like that," she said firmly, but she could see that her words were useless.

"Isn't it?" His tone was flat and cold, and that hurt far worse than his furious outbursts had. "You know what? Fine. You two have a merry old time curing the Blight. But I can't be a part of this. I'm leaving."

"Alistair – "

"I'm afraid it won't be so simple as that, Alistair," Anora cut in, back to her usual clipped self now that the mortal threat to her father's life had passed. Moira felt a twinge of irritation at the interruption – couldn't she see what a savagely personal conversation she was butting into?

"As long as you live, you remain a symbol. Whether you would sanction them or not, rebellions and uprisings would be conducted in your name, under the banner of restoring Maric's true heir to the throne. Ferelden cannot survive another civil war, and I will not allow this country to be torn apart again. I am afraid I am going to have to call for your execution."

Moira's stomach sank even further – Anora wasn't serious, she couldn't be! But of course she was – and the worst part was that she was right. Hadn't Eamon used Alistair as just such a rallying cry, against his will?

"What? Are you serious? You got what you wanted! You have your crown and your wretched father – but that isn't enough for you, is it? You want my life too? The final feather in your cap?" Alistair said, his mocking tone belying the fear that Moira knew lurked beneath the jokes and jibes.

"I am truly sorry it has come to this, Alistair," she said. "Please believe me when I say I take no joy in this. But it is necessary for Ferelden."

"Yeah," he drawled hatefully. "I've noticed a lot of pretty awful things seem to be 'necessary for Ferelden' these days."

"No," Moira cut in suddenly. "Anora, you owe me a boon. This is what I ask. Let Alistair go."

"You would spend your favor on this?" Anora's tone implied what exactly she thought of _that_ decision. "Very well, though I think it unwise. You may leave, Alistair, on the condition that you will never return to Ferelden, and that you forsake all claims to the throne or any titles, for yourself or your heirs."

"Fine," Alistair hissed. "I want _nothing_ to do with any of you people again. _Ever._ I swear to that."

"Alistair," Moira said urgently. Everything had spiraled out of control so fast – all she'd wanted was to spare Loghain from a public, on-the-spot execution. She hadn't wanted any of _this_. "Alistair, wait. Please. You don't have to go."

"Yeah. I do. Or didn't you hear your queen? I get to leave, or I die," he sneered. "So bye, I guess. Have fun ending the Blight, or whatever. It doesn't make any difference to me any more." And with that, he was gone, storming through the Landsmeet chamber doors before Moira had a chance to respond. She stared after him with a growing sense of anger and grief – why had it come to this? It shouldn't have come to this!

Anora began to speak, rallying the now-united Landsmeet around her banner and declaring her support for the Grey Wardens as she named Moira her champion against the darkspawn, but Moira was barely listening. _Why_ couldn't Alistair have seen reason? Why couldn't he see that she had made the right decision for all of them?

She turned from the door – and once again, her eyes met Loghain's. His countenance remained unchanged – stoic, resolute, unafraid of what was to come. Yet again, she got the sense that he alone, in the entire chamber, knew how she was feeling at that precise moment.

 _But he does, doesn't he_? For better or for worse, Loghain had made terrible, momentous decisions, decisions which had inflicted bloody consequences across all of Ferelden. Hadn't she done the same? Hadn't she single-handedly decided whom to place upon the throne of Orzammar, and killed the supporters of Prince Bhelen – and the prince himself – when they had rejected her choice? Hadn't she debated whether to choose between the Dalish elves or the werewolf victims of their curse – and if Zathrian's cure hadn't worked, whom would she have chosen?

 _But it did work. And I always opted for the least violent solution wherever possible. I'm nothing like Loghain_. But as she gazed towards the Landsmeet chamber doors and thought of Alistair, she was no longer so sure.

Cheers resounded throughout the chamber as the Landsmeet applauded Anora's rousing words, but Moira could not bring herself to feel inspired. Riordan interrupted her reverie.

"I am sorry about Alistair," he said. "I understand his anger, but he of all people should know that personal vendettas must be set aside during a Blight if we hope to survive."

"You understand nothing," Moira said bitterly. Then, softening at Riordan's expression, she sighed. "I'm sorry, it's just – "

"I know. He was a friend. And even if Loghain survives, he is… not. But you cannot blame yourself for Alistair's choice."

"Can't I?" she said softly, still looking at the door. But it did not matter if she looked at the door for another hour, day, month, or year – Alistair would never come walking back through. She shook her head.

"I've had enough of this place," she said. "Let's get this over with, then."

Riordan nodded. "I will prepare the chalice. Bring Loghain to Arl Eamon's estate whenever you are ready." And then he was gone, leaving her alone in the center of the floor with Loghain.

He said nothing as she approached him, and she felt the anger rising in her chest. She'd thrown away one of the best friendships she'd ever had for _this_ man? The man who had been her sworn enemy for months, the man who'd abandoned the king to die and caused all of this heartache and bloodshed to begin with? And now he didn't even have the decency to thank her? She felt herself beginning to glower, and it deepened when she noticed a hint of a mocking smile on his face in response.

"Come with me," she said brusquely. "We're going to Arl Eamon's estate, where you'll undertake the Joining. You'll either be a Grey Warden or dead by sunset."

He furrowed his stern brows. "Yes, well, the Blight isn't waiting while we stand here dallying, is it? Let's just get to it, then."

"Fine," she snapped, and gestured for him to follow her. A stray thought of Alistair entered her mind as she exited through the very same doors he'd stormed through not so long ago, and the anger built up within her anew.

"You'd better be worth it," she snarled – though whether to him or to herself, she could not say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I have finally taken the plunge and put this fic on AO3 at the urgings of my super awesome pal bushviper. Not sure how much I have the hang of the interface over here yet, so bear with me... I'm going to go ahead and upload all 14 posted chapters, and then regular updates will be posted both at ff and here concurrently. Long story short: I played Dragon Age for the first time last summer, fell in immediate love with Loghain, and this story was born shortly thereafter. Enjoy! All feedback is supremely appreciated :)


	2. Aftermath

She could feel their eyes – some filled with seething judgment, others merely with puzzled concern – turn to her as she entered the room. Wynne, in particular, glared at her in stern disapproval. Of course – she had liked Alistair the best of them all, and for him to leave, only to be replaced by Loghain, would be a bitter pill for her to swallow. Leliana looked uncomfortable, though her gaze was free of judgment or condemnation. Did her belief in the Maker's mercy extend to someone as infamous as Loghain? Time would tell. Morrigan merely looked bemused and slightly smug – but she'd always hated Alistair, and no doubt had found his distress amusing in the extreme. Moira shuddered and looked away, biting her tongue. Did they think she had driven Alistair away on purpose? She had only done what was best – hadn't she?

"So, then, have you news for us? Did our treacherous teyrn survive his Joining? Will he now fight under your banner in Alistair's place?" Leave it to Morrigan to revel in the discomfort of others.

"Yes, he survived," she replied curtly. She had witnessed his Joining, and it had been as nauseating this time around as before. She had feared, for a brief moment, that he would not survive – he had cried out as the darkspawn blood poisoned his body, and fallen hard to his hands and knees, eyes clenched shut in agony. She was not sure she could have borne it if he had died that way – whatever his sins, he deserved a better death than the Wardens could offer. But he had not died, and now she – and he – had to live with what she'd done.

"I do not like this," Wynne said darkly. "Loghain, of all people? You were at Ostagar! How can you forgive him for what he did there? To the king, to all of us?"

"Who said anything about forgiveness?" she shot back, immediately annoyed with herself for sounding defensive. "Look, Wynne, Riordan was right. We _do_ need more Grey Wardens. And if Loghain can be of use to us in fighting the Blight, then how can we, in good faith, turn down his help?"

"But we _don't_ have more Grey Wardens," Wynne replied. "You have merely traded one we could trust for one we cannot. It is a poor bargain."

"I didn't ask Alistair to leave!" Now she was definitely getting defensive – this was going even worse than she'd feared. "He decided that getting revenge for Duncan was more important than staying to fight the Blight – how could I have foreseen that?"

"And how can you blame him? Would you have served alongside Arl Howe?"

Wynne's words took her aback as surely as if she'd been slapped in the face. "It is _not_ the same! Not even close! Loghain didn't personally drive a blade through Duncan's chest as he begged for mercy! Howe was a venomous snake – he slaughtered my family for his own greed!"

"And you imagine Loghain's motives are nobler? That he betrayed Ferelden out of a sense of altruism?"

"I – " She did not know, really, what to say to that. She found herself growing increasingly angry – at Alistair, for deserting her; at Loghain, for forcing her to justify his crimes to her most loyal friends; at Wynne, for blaming her for the unintended consequences of her mercy; and at herself, for stumbling around in the dark, forced to choose between bad and worse, and watching it all spiral out of control faster than she could take stock of their losses.

"You heard Anora. I am the commander of her army, and I will lead us against the Blight. I will do what I believe necessary to destroy the archdemon, and I need to know that I have your support. I spared Loghain, and he fights with us now. My decision has been made and cannot be undone." She hated ending arguments this way – like an officer silencing dissent within the ranks, rather than as a companion persuading her friends to understand her perspective. But Maker, she was so exhausted; tired of fighting darkspawn, tired of being questioned and second-guessed at every turn, tired of making terrible sacrifices for the greater good, tired of being in charge, tired of losing people she loved. And she was tired of justifying her every bloody action.

"Get some rest while you can. We leave Denerim at dawn tomorrow." And with that, she was gone, not bothering to take stock of the reaction of her friends as she stormed out of Eamon's chambers. If they didn't like her decisions, they could leave, just like Alistair.

Alistair. The shock and sadness of his departure had dulled somewhat, only to be replaced by swiftly mounting anger. In truth, she could not now honestly say that she was surprised by his actions. How long had she made excuses for Alistair's weakness? How many times had she allowed him to glibly pass all responsibility on to her, when by all rights he was the senior Warden and should have been the commander of their mission? How often had she listened sympathetically while he waxed tearfully about Duncan, his hero and father-figure, while she'd had to bite her tongue to keep from saying what she _truly_ thought about the man who'd ripped her away from her dying parents in their hour of need, who had not bothered to tell her one damn thing about just how thoroughly the darkspawn blood would poison her body and soul? And now he had the nerve to leave her to fight the sodding archdemon alone because she hadn't cut "Duncan's killer" down like a dog in front of the entire assembled Ferelden nobility?

Well, no, that was not strictly true. She was _not_ alone. For better or worse, Loghain was with her, and whether or not he would be a more reliable companion than Alistair remained to be seen. She scoffed. Well, he could hardly be much worse – she didn't imagine that Loghain, whatever his faults, would run away from a battle because of a perceived personal slight.

In the midst of her agitated wanderings, she abruptly found herself staring at the door to his room in Eamon's estate. If he had been anyone else, she would have gone to him at once after the Joining. She knew how it felt to be changed irrevocably by the taint, how utterly hopeless and isolating and dreadful it was to know that your life was now forever bound to the vilest of corruptions. And yet she had avoided him. What could she say? Would he even want to talk to her? Did he hate her for what she'd done to him – would he have preferred that she'd simply put a blade in his heart and been done with it?

Oh, sod all this mewling indecision – she was starting to feel like Alistair. She had to speak to Loghain _sometime_. It might as well be now. With a bold hand, she turned the door handle and strode into the room – to the sight of Loghain, clad only in his breeches, wrapping a bandage around his arm.

"Oh," Moira bleated, face reddening. "I'm sorry – I should have knocked."

He turned halfway to face her, arching a supremely wry eyebrow. "Yes, you should have."

"Um." She should have just walked away immediately, but since she hadn't, she felt it would be worse to leave now without speaking a word – and yet, whatever words she'd meant for him had momentarily vacated her brain as she was confronted with the sight of her once-nemesis bereft of his mighty armor and clad only in a pair of workmanlike breeches.

"I just… wanted to see how you were feeling," she managed. "The Joining is rather unpleasant."

"That is putting it quite mildly." She noticed that the wound he wrapped, while bloody, was nevertheless fairly superficial, and she could not help but survey the rest of him as he stood there before her. He looked none the worse for wear, and certainly not as though he'd just fought a duel not six hours ago.

"Am I then to take this as concern for my well-being? I find that difficult to believe." He had returned his attention to his bandage and refused to look at her, and her irritation mounted.

"I was not a willing participant in the Joining, either," she snapped. "Did you think I wanted to be a Grey Warden any more than you did? Did you think I had more choice in the matter than you? I assure you, I did not."

"Then I can only conclude that you believed this to be a more fitting punishment for me than a swift death," he said. "Congratulations, Warden. You have won the day, and I will submit to your command. More than this I do not believe I owe."

"I should have thought that the chance to continue fighting for Ferelden would be welcomed by you," she retorted angrily. "But perhaps I was wrong about you, in which case, I am sorry for depriving you of your martyr's death."

"Do not attempt to draw me out with insinuations of cowardice, Warden. I have nothing I need to prove to you or anyone else. I know what I have done for my country."

"So do I – you plunged it into civil war!"

"Enough!" he roared, ripping away the end of the bandage and tying it off with a hasty jerk. "If you have intruded on my privacy to further hector me with your moralizing, then your presence is most unwelcome. I will follow you into battle, because I have sworn to do this. But I do not owe you my penance."

"I did not come seeking your penance," she said hotly. This had gone pear-shaped rather quickly, just as the conversation with her friends had. Clearly, nothing was going to go right today. "You may believe it or not, but I did come to you out of concern. The Joining is an impossibly lonely and terrible thing, and while I had the benefit of Alistair to help me come to terms with it, you have no one. No one other than me. So here I am."

He looked at her askance at this, his skepticism written plain across his face. "And what comfort do you presume to bring me? I have survived, and I am not otherwise injured. Whether or not this is the fate I would have chosen for myself is entirely irrelevant, as my freedom to choose my own fate ended when I submitted to your mercy."

She looked at him, standing there imperiously before her, the bandage on his arm the only outward indication of any injury. He was, she had to admit approvingly, in fine shape for a man of his years – for a man of any years, really. Which begged the question…

"Why _did_ you submit to my mercy?"

He frowned, and, becoming aware of her scrutiny, turned his back to her and walked over to stand against the bookshelves, pretending to peruse the titles on display. "What a foolish question. Because you had beaten me, and because I wanted to take the time to gather myself so I could die on my feet."

"I beat you, and yet here you stand before me, virtually unharmed," she countered. She could see her point hit home; the muscles on his back rippled as he stiffened in response to her words. "Had you wanted to continue the fight, you no doubt could have. I see no debilitating injury that necessitated your capitulation. And yet you did capitulate. Why is that?"

"I told you – "

"And I don't believe you," she shot back. "Come now, Teyrn Loghain. You are a warrior of many years and many more battles than I. I do not believe that I bested you so easily."

"You underestimate yourself," he said baldly. "I told you that you possess a strength I have not seen since Maric died. Did you imagine that my words were empty flattery? I do not flatter, Warden."

Despite herself, she felt a warm glow of satisfaction at his words. "Then I appreciate your praise, but nevertheless, it is plain to me that I did not defeat you as decisively as you claim. And so I am left with a conundrum – a man who has chosen, for whatever reasons, to submit himself to my authority, and yet who will not accept my offer of – " She broke off at once. She could not, in honesty, say "friendship" – such a word was far too intimate to describe whatever it was she felt for Loghain. What _was_ she offering him, exactly?

"Camaraderie," she finally supplied, lamely.

"Camaraderie?" His voice, to her chagrin, sounded amused. "Is that what this is?" He left the question hanging, but she did not answer it, partly because she could not and partly because she did not want to allow him to continue deflecting the conversation.

"Very well then, Warden," he said at last when it was clear no answer from her was forthcoming. "If you wish me to acknowledge that we are of shared circumstances because of our poisoned blood, then I will do so. It is true, at any rate. If, however, you are seeking a… companion to replace your misbegotten Alistair, then I am afraid I must disappoint you in that regard."

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?" she said hotly. "Are you insinuating –"

"I was insinuating nothing, Warden." He turned around to face her, and she was irritated to see a ghost of a smirk on his face. "But your reaction speaks volumes."

"There was nothing between Alistair and me!" she exclaimed. "Nothing beyond friendship. I find such an accusation petty and beneath you."

"Interesting." The wry arched eyebrow reappeared. "I would imagine that there is very little that you would find beneath me. It is curious that you apparently believe me capable of some standards of decent conduct. And I would like to reiterate that I _made_ no such accusation. I merely meant that if you wish for me to seamlessly replace your lost friendship with Maric's wayward bastard, then I have no interest in doing so. That you assumed something more lurid speaks far more to your feelings than to mine."

Maker, what an infuriating man. "Well, there is nothing lurid about my feelings for Alistair, I assure you. And yes, he _was_ my friend. But that does not mean I am not angry with him for deserting me."

"Yes, the man Eamon would have crowned showed his true colors today, didn't he? I would hope, at least, that you recognize that, whatever your feelings for me, Anora makes for a far superior monarch."

"Of course I recognize that," she snapped. "That is why I supported her claim over Alistair's. Alistair is… a good man. But he is not king material. He knew it and I knew it, even if Eamon was in denial."

"Eamon was not in denial, he was seizing an opportunity!" Loghain retorted. "Who do you think would have truly been ruling Ferelden if your boy Warden had taken the throne? To whom would Alistair have run for advice every time a decision more complicated than what to eat for breakfast arose? Why, to his beloved Uncle Eamon, of course."

"And that is better than you ruling from the shadows as Anora's 'regent?' You had your own daughter imprisoned, for Maker's sake! In that vile bastard Howe's mansion!"

"Anora told you that, did she?" Loghain, for the first time, seemed troubled. "It is true that perhaps I… mishandled her. She has always been a wilful one, and Maker knows she can manipulate just about anyone to get what she wants, as she so cleverly did with you. But if you think I would have harmed my own daughter, then you are grievously mistaken."

"Then why was she at Howe's estate? Surely even you knew what a vicious brute the man was!"

"I was trying to protect her from my enemies! There was no doubt in my mind that those who sought to undermine me would not hesitate to harm her if they found the opportunity to do so. Howe would never have touched her. He would have known better than to provoke my wrath so blatantly. I would have destroyed him." Moira knew, from the vehemence of his tone, that he spoke the truth.

"And all the other people Howe hurt and destroyed? They were just collateral damage?" Even though it was Loghain who stood before her, half-dressed, it was she who felt dangerously vulnerable and exposed. This conversation was striking far too close to home, and yet she had said too much to calmly extricate herself now.

"Howe's sins are his to answer for," Loghain said brusquely, as he began to realize where their dialogue would inevitably lead. "He offered me his support, and I took it. I did not interfere in the administration of his arling – that was his business."

"That's it?" She knew, _knew_ that picking at this scab would lead to nowhere good, for either of them, but the words came pouring out anyway. "You knew – even before Ostagar – what he'd done to my family! And you accepted his support anyway!"

He stared hard at her, silent for long moments. Then, finally: "If you are suggesting that I played a role in Howe's takeover of Highever, then you are wrong. I knew nothing of Howe's plans. But once Cailan had decided to throw himself on the pyre in a foolish suicide charge, I could not afford to alienate him. Howe commanded vast tracts of land and fielded many soldiers for Ferelden's armies. I had to consolidate whatever allies I could, to avoid tearing the country apart."

"Yes, well, you did a bang-up job of that, didn't you?" she said bitterly. "And now my family is dead and gone and I have nothing." Oh, Maker, she hadn't meant to say that out loud.

Once more he looked at her for some long moments before speaking. "I did not kill your family," he said at last. "When Howe came to me, he presented evidence that your father had been treating with Orlais, plotting to sell our country out from beneath us. The documents were stamped with the Teyrn of Highever's personal seal. I… do not now know if they were legitimate, or forgeries. It hardly matters now, at any rate, as you have taken your vengeance on Howe for his deeds. But know this: I would die before I saw Orlais take back even one acre of Fereldan soil. I would most certainly kill before I allowed such a thing to happen. Everything I have ever done was to protect my country."

Moira stared, dumbstruck. This was the first she'd heard of any Orlesian plot to regain influence in Ferelden, outside the vivid imaginings of Loghain himself; and certainly the first she'd ever heard of her _father_ being involved in anything remotely treasonable. Her dumbfoundedness quickly gave way to anger.

"My father was no traitor! He was a loyal subject of the king! How dare you – _how dare you_ try to justify Howe's treachery with such a base accusation!"

"I am trying to justify nothing," he grated. "I am telling you what happened. You may do whatever you wish with the information. I have no incentive to lie to you now."

"Where are these 'documents'?" she demanded. "I want to see them. You couldn't have known my father's handwriting as well as I do – I need to see them! Clearly Howe stole my father's seal after he sacked Highever and composed these false 'documents' for your benefit –"

"Warden, enough." He did not yell back at her; his voice was oddly subdued. "I imagine the documents are with the rest of my correspondence in the Royal Palace, but they will not remain there for long, now that I am… no longer in residence. But I can see no good coming from this. If the documents are forgeries, then it is plain Howe murdered your family without justification and lied about his motives to ingratiate himself to me. You have since exacted your retribution upon him for this. But if the documents are genuine, then you will have discovered that your father was indeed planning to betray his homeland for Orlesian gold. It seems to me that you have much to lose and nothing to gain from this. I do not think it wise. Let the dead lie, Warden."

Moira did not know what made her angrier: that he was so calmly discussing her parents' murder and alleged treason, or that he was absolutely correct in his judgment, and she knew it.

"Very well," she said tightly. "Keep your 'secret documents.' But I want them destroyed, and so help me, if you ever speak of them to the Bannorn – "

He interrupted her with a harsh bark of a laugh. "That is hardly a concern, as I am not likely to ever be invited to address the Bannorn again. But, if it would bring you peace of mind, then I will ask Anora to deliver my personal documents to me before we depart Denerim tomorrow. I will even allow you to review them yourself, though I must reiterate that I think it a poor idea and unlikely to bring you the peace you seek."

She stared at him in confusion. Was Loghain Mac Tir offering to do her a personal favour for no apparent personal gain of his own?

"I… thank you," she blurted. "Why?"

"Because until you've seen the damned papers, they will be gnawing at the back of your mind like a mabari with a bone," he said. "And you cannot afford any distractions before we join the battle with the darkspawn."

"Oh." She was angry with herself for feeling so disappointed. Had she really expected selfless altruism from him? "Well then. I will review them once we make camp tomorrow." The implications of the documents sent her mind reeling, and she suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired. She needed to be alone, before her careful façade of military control fell away entirely.

"Then I will bid you good night. We march from Denerim at dawn." She turned to leave his room, and was halfway out the door before she remembered, from her first night as a Grey Warden…

"You'll have dreams," she blurted out to him, turning in the doorway to face him again. "Nightmares. It's the taint, working its way into your blood. It gives you a connection to the darkspawn, and you can hear them in your dreams. If you're really unlucky, you might even see the archdemon."

Again with the arched eyebrow. "I am certain I can handle unpleasant dreams," he said dryly.

"You don't know what an unpleasant dream is until you've had a Grey Warden dream," she said. "I just… wanted you to know. So you don't wake up the way I did after my first night as a Warden. No one warned me."

Something seemed to waver in his eyes, some emotion other than wry sarcasm that tentatively struggled to emerge from behind his mask of indifference, but then it was gone, and Moira wondered if she was just imagining things.

"Then thank you for the warning," he said briskly. "Now I must ask you to allow me to finish undressing in peace. We have few enough hours left for sleep, and a long march ahead of us."

"Right." She turned again for the door, and again hesitated. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you survived the Joining." Unwilling to see what reaction _that_ statement garnered, she quickly fled and closed the door behind her.

In her own bedroom that night, she tossed and turned, unable to sleep. She had entered that advanced state of exhaustion that made sleep untenable, and the events of the day weighed her down like an anchor. The Landsmeet, and the fateful duel; Alistair's rage at her decision to spare Loghain and his desertion; her companions' near-universal disapproval of her choice to enlist their once mortal foe into their ranks; her acrimonious sparring with Loghain and his revelation of Howe's spiteful allegations against her father. All were bitter pills to swallow, but, surprisingly, she found herself most troubled by Alistair. Her anger had burned itself out, to be gradually replaced by a simmering resentment. He had so blithely told her on so many occasions that he didn't like being in charge, didn't like making decisions, and wanted to follow her lead. Did he buggering well think _she_ wanted to be the one on whose shoulders the fate of the world rested? He was the one who had thought being a Grey Warden was a dream come true and an escape from his dreary life in the Chantry – and yet he had abdicated his vocation in a fit of pique because she had failed to deliver him blood vengeance for Duncan, even though Loghain had not put his blade to the man himself. And now she was alone, facing a hopeless battle against a darkspawn horde not seen on Thedas in centuries, and her only real comrade was the man who had been trying, up until about eight hours before, to kill her.

For the first time since the night Highever fell to Howe's thugs, she rolled over against her pillow and allowed herself to cry.


	3. The Price of Freedom

For the first time in her life, Moira was disappointed that there were no darkspawn to fight.

The march from Denerim was hot, dry, and uneventful, and as they made camp, she found herself wishing that there had been a nice, bracing battle to take her companions' minds off of the events of the Landsmeet. It was plain that they resented and despised Loghain to the last man, and Moira had to wonder just how much of that venom had bled over into their opinions of her. Even the party members who ordinarily had little use for human politics were plainly displeased. Oghren, mumbling incoherently between indiscreet swigs from his flask, had offered his opinion about the fate that "sodding traitors" deserved. Zevran, meanwhile, had been unusually quiet, his usual jibes and japes either muted or absent – which Moira took as a sign of his disapproval.

Her other friends were even worse. Wynne made her censure clearly known, and every time Moira tried to make eye contact with her, she looked away hastily, always finding something trivial with which to busy herself. Leliana was not nearly so rude, but she had an air of sadness about her, and the way she looked at Moira – as if she were disappointed in her – was almost worse than Wynne's stark displeasure. And, of course, Alistair was gone, and she would never be able to talk to him about any of her troubles again.

As they set up camp, she found herself growing ever more resentful of her companions for their lack of support. The Landsmeet was supposed to have brought Ferelden together, united under one banner, once and for all; and yet for all that it had been resolved, her camp felt more fractious than ever. Feeling broody, she took out her knife and began dressing the rabbit that had wandered into her snare, taking solace in the simple, repetitive motions. She was so engrossed in the process that she did not notice anyone approaching her until a shadow blotted out the glow from the fire. She looked up, startled, to see Loghain standing over her, holding a small satchel.

"I believe these are of interest to you," he said, holding it out for her. _The documents from Highever_.

"Maker! You actually – I mean, thank you," she said, cursing herself for her fumbling.

"You sound surprised that I brought them to you. Did you not believe I would be true to my word?" He scowled, thrusting the satchel towards her as if eager to be rid of it. "I must reiterate that this curiosity of yours is foolish in the extreme. Your parents have been avenged, and, assuming you survive the battle with the archdemon, Highever will no doubt be returned to your family once the Blight is over. Whether these missives are genuine or not is now irrelevant."

She glared at him as she grasped the satchel and withdrew the stack of bound correspondence from within. "My family's good name is not irrelevant!"

"Your family's good name is not in doubt. That is what I am attempting to impress upon you, to no avail, it seems. So be it, then. I hope you find whatever it is you are looking for." With that, he stalked away, leaving her to wonder how it was possible for a man to be so utterly unpleasant even while being ostensibly helpful.

Well, if Loghain wanted to snarl around the camp and glower at the others in his leisure time, then by all means, he was free to do so. Unable to wait any longer, she eagerly untied the string binding the letters and took them out to read.

The first one was a short, simple letter addressed to her father, and dated a month before the fall of Highever:

_Bryce,_

_Per our earlier discussion, I think the time has come to make our overtures, and sooner rather than later. You know the Bannorn as well as I do; they are a contentious lot at the best of times, and downright mutinous at the worst. If the situation continues unchanged much longer, then we will no longer be in a favorable position to wring concessions – that is why I have decided to travel to Orlais next month, rather than waiting until after Summerday. I would be honored if you would accompany me – I wish to portray Ferelden's nobility as a united front, and your presence as a teryn would bolster our credibility immeasurably. I know you have had your reservations in the past, but you know as well as I do that as long as the king lacks an heir, the stability of the throne of Calenhad is in doubt. You also know that we will not be able to address this issue to any satisfaction at the Landsmeet – that old war horse Loghain still commands sufficient respect among many of those who recall the occupation, and he will protect his daughter's position to the end, even if it means sacrificing the Theirin line to do so. He can also be reliably counted upon to rally the troops at the merest mention of Orlais, and while I sympathize to a certain extent with his reluctance, after thirty years of peace, his paranoia has descended into irrationality. I dislike all this subterfuge, but what I mean to do is ultimately in the best interests of Ferelden, and if that means circumventing the Landsmeet, then so be it. You need not worry about Cailan; he has rebuffed me in the past, but I believe he is coming around. All the more reason for us to move now, before he has a chance to change his mind._

_Let me know as soon as you are able. As always, give my regards to your lovely teryna and your children. Perhaps we will even find a suitable husband for that fiery daughter of yours in Orlais – I can certainly attest to the benefits of taking an Orlesian for a spouse, after all!_

_Your humble friend, &c.,_

_Eamon_

She frowned at the paper, her thoughts churning. She was not familiar with Arl Eamon's handwriting, and she could not therefore tell if this letter was a forgery, but if true, she was unsure what to think. It was clear that Eamon had arranged some sort of meeting with the Orlesians, though to what precise end was unclear – some sort of alliance, judging from the tenor of the letter. The references to Anora were plain – she _had_ known, from overhearing drawing room gossip at Highever, that many of the nobles were beginning to believe the queen was barren, and should be set aside so that Cailan could produce an heir to the throne. She had always assumed that if that had happened, he would merely take a new wife from the ranks of the many young unmarried Ferelden noblewomen, but Eamon seemed to be suggesting an alliance with an Orlesian noblewoman instead. And what was this about marrying _her_ off to some Orlesian noble? She cringed at the thought. She'd found Isolde shallow, foolish, and grating, and she could hardly imagine that Orlesian noblemen were any better.

She smothered a wry smile. _Now I'm starting to sound like Loghain_.

Hesitantly, she withdrew the next paper from the stack, and saw that it was her father's reply, dated some two weeks later – just a fortnight before the massacre at Highever. If this was indeed his genuine reply, then it was clear he hadn't found the time to send the letter with a courier to Redcliffe, which explained why Howe had found it at Highever. She scanned the manuscript quickly. If it was a forgery, it was a damned good one – the words sloped to the right, and the _t_ 's were crossed asymmetrically. It had to be her father's elegant, precise handwriting which flowed across the page – it was vanishingly unlikely that anyone else could have penned such a precise replica. Moira's hands began to tremble slightly. She remembered Loghain's stern warning – _if the documents are genuine, then you will have discovered that your father was indeed planning to betray his homeland for Orlesian gold_. _It seems to me that you have much to lose and nothing to gain from this_. Damn and blast him, he'd been right – she should have refused to look at them, should have been content in her belief that they must have been forgeries produced by Howe to discredit her father and justify his own treachery. But it was too late to go back now, and, swallowing her fear, she read on.

_Arl Eamon,_

_I must admit to a great deal of trepidation regarding this venture, particularly in light of recent tensions along the border. It is not that I believe what you say to be without sense – on the contrary, I think you are accurate in your reckoning, both regarding the necessity of producing an heir, and of forging closer ties with Orlais, preferably on our own terms. But I dislike the idea of going behind the backs of the Landsmeet. Loghain can certainly be a disagreeable curmudgeon, but he remains the only other teryn in the land – his will, and those of his vassals and allies, cannot be dismissed so blithely. But, of course, you are entirely correct that he will never willingly support any overtures, no matter how lukewarm, to Orlais, nor would he allow Anora to be dispossessed without a fight. Nevertheless, I feel that we cannot make any decision – particularly one so momentous – without the Landsmeet's approval._

_With that in mind, I will accompany you to Orlais, assuming you can provide me with assurances that you have the King's full support in this endeavour. You are correct that presenting a united front will strengthen our negotiations – but I will only undertake such a mission if I know that it is his will. Couslands have always served at the pleasure of the king, and I would not undermine his authority in this, or any other, matter. However, it appears as though any trip we might make shall be delayed anyhow – I have received news of the darkspawn massing in the Korcari Wilds, and I believe the King will call his armies to go and meet the threat. If that is the case, then Fergus and I shall certainly take our forces to join him. Perhaps I can discuss the issue at length with him there, and once the darkspawn have been dealt with, we can proceed, depending upon the King's grace, of course._

_I have conveyed your felicitations to my family, and likewise hope you will convey mine to Isolde and young Connor. I must implore you, however, to never allow my Moira to hear you speak of setting her up with an arranged match, let alone one to a foreigner – she is quite determined to follow her own path in life, and woe betide anyone who tries to advise her otherwise! Ah, I can hardly complain – she is entirely like her mother in that regard, and in that I can find no fault._

_We shall speak soon. Until then, walk in the Light, my friend._

_Bryce_

The words slowly began to blur together, and Moira remembered that she was sitting out in the open just in time to stifle a sob. Wiping hurriedly at her eyes, she dashed the tears away, sending droplets down upon the parchment and causing the ink to run across the page in spidery rivulets, blurring the words until they were indecipherable. _Oh, Father. Maker keep you and Mother at His side_. The pain of losing her parents was a wound that had, slowly but gradually, begun to knit together; now it was ripped open anew, and she felt her loss as keenly as she had that first, awful night.

She stood, ignoring the curious gazes from the others, who – thank the Maker for small mercies – sensed her distress and were respectful enough to keep their distance. Without a second thought, she threw the letters into the fire, watching through a veil of tears as they curled into the flames and were quickly reduced to ashes. Whatever those letters proclaimed, whatever significance they had, at least now no one else would ever know of them.

And what significance, exactly, _did_ they have? Loghain had told her that the documents exposed her father's treachery, his plot to sell Ferelden's honor for Orlesian gold. But all he'd agreed to do was meet with some Orlesian delegates at Arl Eamon's behest – and then only with the assurances that he was acting on behalf of the king! Her anger began to mount as she recalled his conviction – for _those_ letters, he was willing to believe that her father was a traitor, and therefore felt justified in his alliance with that murderous fiend Howe? But really, what more had she expected from the regicide himself?

Furious, she stormed away from the campfire and into the woods, needing desperately to be alone, away from all the concerned eyes trying not to glance her way. She thrashed through the underbrush until she found a small clearing, and, at last alone, she proceeded to pace back and forth in agitation, willing herself to calm down until she had mastered her emotions enough to return to the others. She snarled a series of curses, most of them directed at Loghain – perhaps Alistair had been right after all, and Loghain did not truly deserve to join her as a Grey Warden, and –

"I take it, from your reaction, that you believe the documents to be genuine. I warned you, did I not? I warned you that you stood only to lose from reading those letters, and yet you insisted on doing so." His commanding, gruff voice cut through her thoughts, and she started in shock as he emerged into the clearing to join her, the moonlight glinting off his silver armor. How long had he been there? Long enough to overhear some choice remarks regarding his character and parentage, no doubt.

"You son of a bitch!" She strode towards him, glaring into his impassive icy blue eyes. "You told me those letters exposed my father's treachery! That he was planning to sell out Ferelden to Orlais! They prove nothing of the kind!"

"Warden, I understand your loyalty to your father," he grated. "But you have now read the letters for yourself, and you cannot deny his own words! He intended to meet with Orlesian nobles to decide the fate of Ferelden – what, pray tell, is that, if not treason?"

"He didn't – all he planned to do was talk!" she burst.

"Talk? How does one 'talk' to a wolf at his doorstep, I wonder? Does he think to convince the wolf not to eat him, if he asks nicely enough? Or perhaps he knows that the wolf is a ravening beast which will not leave without its tribute, and so he prepares a sacrifice in order to sate its bloodlust?"

"A ravening beast looking to sate its bloodlust?" She stared hard at Loghain, shaking her head slowly. "Sweet Maker, listen to yourself! Eamon was right – your paranoia about Orlais _is_ irrational!"

"You were not there!" he bellowed. "You did not live through the occupation! I did! You did not bear witness to the atrocities and barbarisms their chevaliers and painted lords inflicted upon our people! I did! You would presume to lecture me about Orlais when you know _nothing_ of what it is capable?"

"You cannot blame all Orlesians for the occupation! You know Leliana, and Riordan – they are hardly 'ravening beasts!' You wouldn't even _be_ here were it not for Riordan! You have to let go of the past!"

"Let go of the past?" His voice was full of incredulity and disgust. "We can no more 'let go of the past' than we can shed our skins. The past is always with us. It is in our blood and in our bones and in every beat of our hearts."

She struggled to respond to that, to his forthright certainty, and found she could not understand it at all.

He sighed irritably. "You think me an old, mad fool, fighting a battle that has long since been won. But you are wrong. Well, perhaps you are right that I am an old, mad fool – but the battle against Orlais is not won. It will never be 'won.' Not as long as the Masked Empire still hungers for Ferelden's crops to fill its belly and Ferelden's soldiers to fight its wars. The price of our freedom is eternal vigilance. I have never forgotten that, nor will I ever. Nor will I apologize for moving against those who would seek to forget."

"My father didn't forget," she said quietly. "You read his letter – he would have done nothing without the Landsmeet's approval, or the support of the king! Whatever you may think of his plans to travel to Orlais, he was not a traitor!"

He sighed. "It is plain enough that your father was attempting, somewhat, to rein in Eamon's impulses," he admitted. "But it matters naught, as Howe had already butchered him before I knew of any of this. I admit that when Howe presented these letters to me, I… found myself trusting him, in retrospect, more than I should have."

She wanted to rage at him, to howl at him for ever having thought for even a moment that Howe was worthy of trust, but found that she could not. Perhaps his somewhat conciliatory tone had ameliorated her anger, or perhaps it had just burned itself out, like a white-hot burst of flame, to be replaced by a hollow melancholy.

"You were not the first to be deceived by Rendon Howe," she said bitterly. "He was only able to slaughter my family because he and his soldiers were already safely inside our keep. My father trusted him and he paid for that trust with his life."

"A bitter price," Loghain agreed. "And yet here we stand, despite my numerous attempts on your life. Why did you spare me? You could have had me executed. I would have done, in your place. Perhaps you hoped I would perish in your Grey Warden ritual? You must be sorely disappointed that I refuse to die. What is it you want from me, Warden?"

It was a question she had been asking herself since that fateful moment at the Landsmeet. Her gaze met his in the moonlight, and, as usual, whatever emotions or thoughts he concealed behind those piercing pale blue eyes remained hidden from her view.

"I'm offering you a second chance. I want you to take it," she said finally. "You were a hero to all Ferelden, once. Perhaps you can be again, if you help me end this Blight."

He looked at her long and hard, and she felt as besieged by his penetrating gaze as she ever had by the blades and arrows of her foes.

Finally, he broke the silence with a snort of disdain. "Sentimental nonsense," he said, but there was an undercurrent of amusement in his gruff tone, and Moira supposed that had to count for something. "But nevertheless, I am a man who has always believed in taking whatever chances fate might offer." He paused, as if wanting to say more, but then seemed to abruptly change his mind.

"Come," he said suddenly, in that imperious tone of his that brooked no debate. "We should head back to camp. I imagine your friends are preparing to organize a search party, for fear that I have slipped a knife between your ribs."

The camp was quiet, her friends scattered about around the fire or in their tents, but she allowed herself a private chuckle of amusement as she saw Zevran, Leliana, and Wynne visibly relax their postures as she came out of the woods. Perhaps Loghain's jibe had not been far from the truth.

A maelstrom of thoughts swirled through her as she headed back to the fire, thinking on the conversation she'd just shared with Loghain. He had been right – reading her father's missives had only brought her more questions and no answers. She _did_ agree with Eamon that Loghain was paranoid and irrational regarding Orlais, but… it was true she had not lived through the occupation herself. Her father had spoken of it sparingly, and only in the vaguest of manners, telling her that it had been a "dark time for them all."

She sighed irritably – there was no use ruminating over the past. The Orlesians were gone, and her father and Howe were dead. All that stood before them now was the Blight, Maker help them all.

She resumed her seat before the fire, recalling that she had skinned a rabbit for supper, but Loghain had interrupted her before she'd been able to cook it on the spit. So where was it? She looked all around, to no avail – until she spotted a pair of very guilty eyes peering at her from a few paces away.

"Dane!" she scolded indignantly. Her mabari hound was the absolute picture of remorse, his head tucked shyly between his outstretched paws, tail wagging guiltily. "You ate my rabbit, didn't you?"

A low, slow whine confirmed her hypothesis. "What do you mean, it was just laying there? I was planning to come back for it, you know!" She glared at him until, unable to bear his mistress's scolding, he rose and trotted over to her, laying his head on her lap and giving her a soft, apologetic snuffle.

"Yes, well, you _should_ be sorry! That was _my_ supper, you hairy beast! You already _had_ yours! And don't think those gooey eyes will get you out of this one. What a bad boy you are!" Another long, sad whine.

"You can hardly chasten a dog for being a dog, Warden." Loghain's voice appeared suddenly behind her, sounding (to her considerable annoyance) rather amused. He appeared to her left, taking a seat near the fire as he rummaged through a travel pack, pulling out a wrapped bundle which turned out to be a wedge of cheese and some purloined roast from the palace.

Dane, his attempts at earning his mistress's forgiveness forgotten, appeared at once at Loghain's side, his eyes bright as he stared soulfully at the new source of food. Loghain shot him a look of wry amusement, and Moira realized that this was the first time she'd ever seen the taciturn man without his customary mask of hard indifference.

"Oh no, you're not getting any of this, I'm afraid," he chided gently, though he did spare a hand to scratch Dane behind the ears. "You've had quite enough already, it seems! I don't think your mistress would be very pleased if I rewarded you for stealing her supper." With a whine of disappointment, Dane sat down next to Loghain, abandoning his quest for extra scraps. He sniffed at Loghain's hand, tentatively at first, then, with a cheerful snort, he began to bestow affectionate licks. With a deep chuckle, Loghain allowed the dog to perform his greeting, and when Dane was done, resumed idly stroking the dog's head as he bit into his cheese.

Moira watched the scene with growing fascination. Her other companions' attitudes towards Dane had ranged from amusement to toleration, and he – being a good dog, and obedient to her every wish – tolerated them in turn, but he had taken to none of them the way he had just taken to Loghain. Mabari hounds were renowned across Thedas not just for their ferocity in battle and their utter devotion to their masters, but also for their remarkable intelligence – Moira had, in her younger days, ruled out many fellow youths as potential friends or suitors based solely on Dane's reaction. That he had taken so readily to the man she trusted _least_ in the entire camp gave her considerable food for thought.

"He likes you," she said at last. "You're lucky – he doesn't take to very many people that eagerly. I think he can barely restrain himself from growling at Morrigan, actually."

Loghain snorted in amusement. "That makes two of us." Moira could not help but snigger in response to _that_. Loghain actually smiled, and she again found herself wondering at the change in him, when he wasn't scowling and snarling and ranting about Orlesian treachery.

"I had a mabari, once," he said, and from the faraway sound of his voice, she knew that if she interrupted him, for any reason, the spell would be broken, and so she remained silent. "Her name was Adalla. We found her in the woodshed one night, when she was just a pup. She had the most beautiful chestnut brown coat, the most intelligent, understanding eyes. My mother said she was a gift from the Maker. And she was… she really was." Dane let out a happy little woof of agreement, but Moira was utterly still, afraid that even the slightest movement would tear Loghain from his reverie.

"We grew up together, she and I. She never left my side, not once. Ten years I had her, before she was taken away." Dane cocked his head inquisitively, emitting a small whine of confusion. "An Orlesian lordling came to our farm and took her from us. You see, he wanted to mix the blood of our noble mabari with his frail, wasp-waisted game hounds, which were bred for looks, not intelligence. I tried to keep her, but there was little I could do to stop the Orlesian. I wasn't even a man yet. You can imagine what it was like for her – being torn away from her family, from the boy she was bonded to." Dane gave a long, mournful cry. Moira recognized the dampness brimming at the corners of her eyes, but she dared not move to wipe them away.

"It was a year before we saw her again. The Orlesians finally returned her – well, when I say 'returned,' I mean that they pushed her out of the back of their moving wagon in front of our farm. She was skin and bone, and still carried the scars from where their pronged collars bit into her neck." His voice, which had grown angry and bitter, again became subdued as he lost himself in the memories. "She never was the same. She passed away a week later, with her head in my lap. I like to think at least that she died happy." Dane howled softly, and nudged his nose into Loghain's hand. Moira could no longer ignore the tears running down her cheeks, so she reached up to swipe them away, sniffling. The sound abruptly tore Loghain out of his reminiscences, and he started, his gaze snapping over towards her in surprise, and for a moment he scowled savagely at her, as if furious with her for eavesdropping on such intimate memories. But then his expression softened, and, with a sigh, he turned away, looking steadfastly down at Dane as he scratched behind the dog's ears.

"That's horrible," she said softly. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea."

He scoffed, but there was no malice in it. "Of course not, how could you? I've never told anyone that story. Not even Maric." With a final caress of Dane's head, he stood up, wrapping the cloth around the remainder of his food. "But I do believe we've stirred up enough ghosts for one night. Here," he said, handing her the wrapped cheese and roast. "Next time, you should be more careful with your food when there's a hungry mabari around."

She took the proffered food with a perplexed frown. "Why are you doing this?" she asked.

"What?" he asked irritably. "Giving you food? I should have thought that was obvious."

"Not just that," she said. "Being… well, not _nice_ , exactly, but… considerate… of me."

He glared down at her, his countenance plainly vexed – though there was another emotion there that she could not quite define. "I should hardly call sharing cold leftover palace roast with you an act of consideration worthy of note. Or is it that you think me such a monster that even the most basic of courtesies is unexpected?"

She was taken aback by that. "I don't think you're a monster," she immediately protested, even though she knew in her heart that there had been times, in the past few weeks, that she had thought so ill of him as to make no substantial distinction.

To her surprise, he smiled, though it was more of a slight, barely perceptible quirking of his lips. "You are a very poor liar, you know," he said, his tone almost warm. "But it is kind of you to say, all the same." He turned, as if to walk away, but stopped short of the fire. "This… situation we are in – all of it can rightly be called my fault. I did what I thought was best at the time, though in retrospect, it has become clear to me that I made… many mistakes. Whether or not you will do any better remains to be seen. But if you can end the Blight and bring peace to Ferelden where I failed, then you have my solemn oath that I shall follow you to the very end. This I swear."

"I…" She had not expected such an unsolicited vow of loyalty, and was struck momentarily dumb. "Thank you. I am glad to have you, Loghain."

He laughed. "Well, we shall see how long that lasts," he said wryly. "Good night, Warden." With that, he walked away, towards his tent, leaving her alone with the fire, her dog, and her thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we get further away from the Landsmeet, the dialogue will gradually become all original, but while we are still dealing with some of the 'canon' issues in the aftermath of Loghain's Joining, there will be a few pieces of dialogue you'll recognize from the game -specifically, in this chapter, Loghain's tale about his mabari hound. I thought the original conversation was so moving and poignant that I reproduced it here with minimal changes, but rest assured that Loghain and Moira will grow closer than canon allowed (damn you Bioware!). Thank you for reading along! Reviews are love :)


	4. A Thing Both Kind and True

The next day's march had just gotten underway when Wynne at last decided to break her silence.

Moira saw her approaching out of the corner of her eye, and, mindful of the cool reception she'd received from the upright mage ever since the Landsmeet, she decided that it was best to let Wynne break the ice. Wynne fell into step beside her, and, after a few moments of silence, leaned in closer to Moira, careful to keep her voice low.

"You spent a great deal of time with Loghain last night." Her words were a barely-disguised accusation. "I admit, I was nervous when I saw him follow you into the woods. Are you certain you can trust him? You know what he did at Ostagar. If he would betray the king, I fail to see why he should not betray you too."

Moira suppressed an exasperated sigh. She had become close to Wynne in the preceding months; the kindly woman had become something of a surrogate mother to her, offering advice and comfort when she felt utterly alone and daunted by the task before her. She knew the old woman meant well, and she understood why Wynne, in particular, would despise Loghain for his actions at Ostagar; the mage had lost a great many friends at that ill-fated battle. Wynne certainly had every rational right to be concerned; how, then, could Moira possibly explain why she believed that concern to be misplaced?

"He won't betray me," she said. "I know you don't like him, Wynne –"

"Don't like him?" The mage no longer bothered to disguise her displeasure. "That is rather an understatement, don't you think? Surely _you_ can't 'like' him after everything he has done?"

"I didn't say I did," Moira replied testily. "But… I trust him. He gave me his vow," she said, realizing as she said the words that Wynne would not be so easily swayed.

"His vow?" Wynne repeated skeptically. "What is the word of a traitor worth, Moira?" Moira opened her mouth to retort, but Wynne shook her head and laid a gentle hand on her arm. "I am not trying to make things more difficult for you, believe it or not. I have made it clear that I do not agree with your decision to accept Loghain, but it was your decision to make, and I will abide by it, whether I like it or not. I only came to tell you to watch your back around him. The man knows no honor – he would not hesitate to stab you, stab us all, in the back, if he thought it would serve his agenda."

"Loghain's only agenda is to protect Ferelden," she said, unable to believe the words were actually coming from her own mouth. "He made some terrible mistakes, it is true, but he wants to end this Blight as much as I do. He is not like Howe."

Wynne stared at her as if she'd just turned into a hurlock. "You cannot seriously be defending him," she said, horrorstruck. "You were _there_! You saw what he did! You saw what he did to those elves in the alienage – " Abruptly, she stopped, and the way she stared at Moira broke the younger woman's heart – as if she, too, had betrayed the mage's trust.

"I am sorry, Moira, but I cannot approve of this," Wynne said gravely. "I will aid you in ending the Blight, but I cannot simply pretend that I can accept Loghain as you apparently have. I will never, ever forget what he did at Ostagar, nor what he has done since. If you insist on defending him in spite of all that, then we have no more to say to one another." Without a backwards glance, Wynne turned and stalked away, leaving Moira alone, with only the dust of the road and the soft keening of the wind to keep her company.

A deep melancholy welled within Moira, and even though her companions were not far behind her, she felt more isolated than she had since that dreadful flight from Highever all those months ago. She had already lost so much – and since sparing Loghain at the Landsmeet, she had also managed to lose two of her dearest friends. All for the sake of a man who had been her mortal enemy.

 _You'd better be worth it_ , she'd said to him in the Landsmeet chamber the night she'd dragged him off to submit to the Joining. Had he been? He'd cost her two relationships, and possibly more. And yet, she thought back to the oddly intimate moment they'd shared yesterday at the fire – his affinity with Dane, and his own heartbreaking story about the mabari he'd loved. In the darkness, she had even sensed that there might have been something there, between them – something of the 'camaraderie' that she had offered, and that he had so scornfully dismissed, the night of the Landsmeet – but perhaps that had just been a trick of the shadows.

She was aware, at once, of a presence immediately beside her, and she jumped involuntarily, her hand on the hilt of her sword as she whirled about to face the threat, only to find herself gazing into Zevran's bemused eyes.

"Maker's breath, Zevran, don't sneak up on me like that!" she chided, though in truth, she could never be angry at the winsome elf – and she was more than a little grateful for company to distract her from her own swirling thoughts.

"Ah, but you make it so easy, _mia bella_ ," he replied, suave as always. "You would make a very poor assassin."

"Then it's a good thing I've got a day job, isn't it," she retorted. "At least until the Blight is over, at any rate."

Zevran laughed, the sound as musical as ever. "Pithy as always, my dear Warden. It is my favorite thing about you. Well, my second favorite thing, behind your ravishing auburn tresses, your striking hazel eyes, and your impossibly toned legs. Truly, you should not hide such treasures beneath that unflattering armor. A finely-tailored set of Antivan leathers would be just the thing to properly showcase your innumerable assets."

"You know, after that exhaustive list of all your favorite things about me, I think my pithiness actually rates fairly low," she quipped. She had missed his banter – Zevran always seemed to know just how to cheer her up. "You're irrepressible, you know that, right?"

He laughed again. "You are not the first to tell me this. Perhaps it is _your_ favorite thing about me, no?"

"Well, it's right up there with your flowing blonde locks, your soulful eyes, and that lovely accent, anyway."

Zevran grasped his chest in faux agony. "Oh! You tease me so! You are truly the cruelest of mistresses, to so toy with my heart," he said dramatically.

"Are you sure it's your heart you're worried about?"

Zevran threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, you _are_ a singular woman." They enjoyed the familiar repartee and the much needed sense of levity it brought, but as their laughter faded, he turned to her with a serious mien.

"All jesting aside… I must admit to being a trifle concerned for you," he said quietly. "I observed your conversation with Wynne. Well, I did not hear it, but it was plain that it did not end well. And I must confess that I too harbor my doubts about accepting my former employer into our ranks."

"Your former employer?" she said. "I thought your employer was the Antivan Crows, and that whatever contract Loghain had taken was through them, not with you specifically?"

"That is true," he said. "And do not worry that I will feel compelled to, ah, 'finish the job' for him." She raised an eyebrow – that truly hadn't occurred to her, and now she wondered at why she was so willing to trust both an assassin and the man who'd hired him.

"Zevran, I accepted you into our company after you tried to kill me," she said bluntly. "I'm not sure why you are concerned that I should do the same for Loghain."

"But don't you see? I was merely the instrument of another's desire. I never personally wanted you dead. I did not even know you. The Crows tell me to kill, and I kill. It is never a personal vendetta. But Teryn Loghain?" He looked at her, and she could see the uncharacteristic worry in his eyes. "He is the one who paid the Crows to ensure that I was sent to kill you. That makes him rather more complicit in the plot than me, do you not agree?"

"I never said that he wasn't guilty of trying to kill me," she said, annoyed by how frequently she found herself apologizing for Loghain. "But he conceded defeat honorably at the Landsmeet, and he has sworn to follow me against the darkspawn. I trust him. I appreciate your concern, Zevran, but there is nothing to worry about."

"If you say so, _mia bella_ ," he said, but he sounded far from convinced. At least he didn't appear disgusted or upset with her, as Wynne had. "Well, rest assured that if he tries anything, he will not get far. Zevran will watch your back."

Moira smiled, grateful for the companionship of her loyal, if overly flirtatious, friend. At least she still _had_ a friend. "Thank you, Zevran. That means a lot to me."

"But of course. You need only call and I will answer." With a courtly bow, he disappeared behind her, no doubt to better keep an eye trained on Loghain for any hint of possible treachery.

Moira trekked on, lost in her thoughts. It had not escaped her how often she found herself championing not only Loghain's trustworthiness, but his essential character. She had told herself that she had spared him only for his usefulness as an ally, and that she neither trusted nor forgave him for his role in fomenting Ferelden's civil war. And yet, she'd had the opportunity to say exactly that to both Wynne and Zevran, and she had declined to do so. What was compelling her to come to his defense?

Dane trotted up to her, able as usual to sense his mistress's distress. He nudged her gauntleted hand with his nose, and she gave him an obliging scratch. "It's nice to know that I've got at least one person… well, dog… on my side no matter what," she murmured, to which Dane uttered a woof of agreement.

Suddenly, she felt a thrumming in her blood, like a hive of malicious insects buzzing inside her skull. A sense of vileness, of something deeply _wrong_ , overwhelmed her. It could only mean one thing. She raised her hand, motioning for the party to halt. Looking behind her, she saw her companions regarding her with expressions that varied from wary to curious, knowing that she would have only called a halt for a good reason.

Her eyes met Loghain's, and she saw at once that he felt it too. He approached her, ignoring the resentful stares that followed him as he fell in beside her with the practiced ease of a man accustomed to leading from the front.

"Something foul stirs in my blood," he said without prelude. "It is the darkspawn corruption, isn't it?"

"Yes," she affirmed. "They are near. We can sense them through the taint – but so too can they sense us. Be ready."

He smirked, and she wondered how his small half-smiles could have such a profound affect on her. "I am always ready, Warden," he said laconically.

"Good," she said, smirking back. She unsheathed her sword, turning to address her companions. "The darkspawn are somewhere near us – be ready to engage at any moment." She heard Oghren's low, deep chuckle of delight – sometimes the dwarf's zest for battle bordered on the disturbing, but she had to admit that she'd far rather have him at her side than not.

"Stay with me," she instructed Loghain. "We will be able to sense them before the others can see them – soon we'll have a good idea of where they are coming from and how many there are."

"I did not realize Grey Wardens could seek out darkspawn with such precision," he said. "I can discern nothing specific – I merely feel a general impression of evil, for lack of a better word."

"It comes with time." She reflected on the first time she had sensed the darkspawn through her blood, the foul wickedness of their proximity permeating through her being, nearly overwhelming her with despair. "I could never sense them as well as Alistair could. The longer the taint festers within us, the more we become corrupted – and the better we can perceive them. Essentially, the taint is slowly turning us into darkspawn, bit by bit – our 'gift' and our curse all in one."

"How charming," he said drolly. "That detail is rather noticeably absent from the Grey Warden recruiting pitch. Though I suppose it's still marginally preferable to summary execution."

"Yes, there are a lot of details that are rather noticeably absent from the Grey Warden recruiting pitch, as I found out the hard way," she said, the old resentment bubbling up within her anew. She was bitterly reminded of how Duncan had conscripted her into the Wardens, wringing a promise from her dying father and giving her no choice in the matter – and he certainly hadn't bothered to fill her in on any of the nitty-gritty details, such as the poisoned chalice, or the taint, or the Calling. Ah yes – the ultimate fate of a Grey Warden was another detail she would have to share with Loghain sooner rather than later. But that would have to wait for another time. She could feel them coming, through the taint in her blood, the seething mass of evil spilling out from just beyond the hill ahead. Drawing her sword from its scabbard, she nodded at Loghain, and found herself reassured by his firm nod in response. He was clearly in his element, sword drawn and raised for battle, and she found herself grateful, as the darkspawn began to pour over the hill, that he was at her side.

An arrow, loosed from Leliana's tautly-strung bow, felled the hurlock at the head of the charge, and a gout of flame from Morrigan's staff burned through the ranks, sending more of the darkspawn shrieking to their doom. Then the main body of the force was amongst them, and Moira lost herself in the simple test of her battle skills. Her sword sang as she scythed through the foul demons, and she began to understand why Oghren lusted for battle as he did. Here, there were no politics, no personality clashes – only a pure test of her strength and resolve, her skill and prowess, against that of her foes.

She let out an exultant cry as her blade connected with the skull of a charging genlock, cleaving its head in two, before she noticed a small band of four hurlocks closing in on her, led by a mighty alpha hefting a massive two-handed battleaxe. She parried a violent blow with her shield as her blade thrust forward into the guts of the first hurlock, and she pivoted about to slice her sword through the neck of the second, decapitating it neatly. Then the massive hurlock leader was upon her, and she was barely able to raise her shield in time to catch a bone-shattering blow that would have hewn her cleanly in half. Staggering backwards from the force of the blow, she took note of the other hurlock raising its sword-arm, readying a killing strike – but before it could swing its weapon, Dane bounded forward with a howl of rage, bowling the hurlock over and proceeding to maul it with savage ferocity. She shifted her focus back to the alpha hurlock, which swung its mighty axe at her again, her swift parry catching the weapon just in time and rattling her sword-arm with the force of the blow. With a curse, she stumbled to the ground, her arm numb and tingling, and again she lifted her shield scarcely in time to block a savage strike from the war axe. The hurlock choked out a series of guttural, mocking grunts, and a burning hatred for the foul beast surged through Moira's blood. Off-balance and on her knees, she lunged forward, her blade sinking into the monster's leg, eliciting a bellow of rage. It lashed out with a savage kick and caught her in the shoulder, flinging her onto her back. With a howl of triumph, the hurlock raised its axe –

Only to drop the weapon from senseless fingers as a finely-wrought blade thrust through its chest from behind. The blade slid out with a jerk, and the alpha hurlock collapsed with a bloody gurgle, revealing to her the blood-soaked and battle-worn figure of Loghain Mac Tir, standing before her like a victorious god of war. She didn't think anyone had ever looked so incredible.

He approached her, sheathing his sword and slinging his shield across his back, and offered her a wordless hand. She took it, wondering dizzyingly that the man who'd tried to kill her in single combat mere days ago had now just saved her life. Truly the Maker moved in mysterious ways.

"My hero," she said wryly, as her eyes met his. He held her gaze, and a peculiar feeling percolated in the pit of her stomach as he held her eyes for perhaps a beat longer than was ordinary; but then he turned, breaking the spell and scoffing lightly.

"I hardly think I should be your hero for doing what anyone in this party would have done," he said. "I just happened to be in the right place at the right time."

"Well, I'm glad you were," she said, more sincerely. "Thank you, Loghain."

He frowned, as if preparing to deflect her gratitude with more sarcasm, but seemed to reconsider. "You are welcome," he said, relenting, as his face eased into an expression that was, if not expressly friendly, at least decidedly cordial.

Her shoulder ached dully, and her arm still tingled with residual numbness from the hurlock's axe-blow, but she was otherwise unharmed; a quick survey of her companions showed that they too were in one piece, though they all looked a fright, armor and weapons covered in blood, and some had begun to gingerly tend to wounds of varying severity. The road was littered with the bodies of fallen darkspawn, and, though her friends had emerged mostly unscathed, the day had grown long, and Moira knew that the best thing she could do now was find a place for them to rest, recover, and clean themselves before they resumed the long trek towards Redcliffe.

"We should find a suitable place to set up camp," she said, removing a gauntlet so she could wipe the blood from her face. "We'll tend to our wounds and rest up before setting out again tomorrow."

"Be nice to find a real tavern out here," Oghren grumbled. "It ain't that I don't have plenty of drink on hand, but I could go for a wench right about now. Since none of you ladies have been willing to take a tumble with ol' Oghren… though I should add that the offer is always open," he said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively as Morrigan made no attempt to hide her gag of disgust.

"Ah yes, wenches," Zevran waxed in a nostalgic tone. "Though I daresay, no tavern maiden could ever be so fair as these beautiful ladies at my side," he added, lips quirking in a knowing smile that evoked an exasperated sigh from Moira.

"While I hardly share the one-track mind of my two… colleagues… I must admit, 'twould be nice to spend the night in a bed for a change," Morrigan offered. Moira resisted the urge to point out that they had, only a few days ago, spent many nights in rather comfortable beds courtesy of Arl Eamon's hospitality.

"Ooo, yes!" Leliana chimed in, and Moira, still standing next to Loghain, sensed his body tauten like a bowstring upon hearing the Orlesian's strong accent. "A real bed, instead of the cold, hard ground!"

"For the love of the Maker, we are warriors!" Moira burst, exasperated. "Not pampered milksops!" But she had to admit that the thought of a hot bath, of washing the darkspawn filth from her skin and hair and armor and sword, _was_ appealing. As was a meal that didn't require her to catch, kill, and skin it.

They were on the Imperial Highway bordering the South Reach, a few good days' march from Lothering, but still too far north to worry about being overrun by the horde – the darkspawn they had just faced had clearly been a band of stragglers, or scouts. "I suppose we are not far from Dungate," she said, acquiescing. "It is merely a few miles down the road. There should be an inn there."

Her companions' spirits noticeably brightened as they resumed the march towards the little village, and she felt her own mood rise as well. A bed, a proper meal, and a nice bath was sounding better and better. Perhaps it would help her to clear her head after the chaotic past several days.

The village, fortunately, was situated north of the horde's current reach, and had thus been spared devastation, though the streets were deserted and most shops were shuttered up tight. The band of darkspawn that they had just slain had inexplicably failed to sack the village, for which she was thankful.

As they approached the village, the reason for the darkspawn reticence became clear: an imposing city wall, interspersed by watchtowers full of armored soldiers, rose into view as they crested the hill overlooking the village. A pair of ballista flanked the gates, ready to unleash hell on any who dared threaten the tiny settlement.

"Halt, there!" The gate guard called as Moira and her companions approached. "State your business, traveler."

"We are Grey Wardens marching towards Redcliffe to take up the battle with the darkspawn," she said without pretense. "We have only just dispatched a band of the fiends not five miles from your village. We would be grateful to for any rest and provisions you could spare."

The guardsmen brought his fist to his shoulder in a military salute. "An honor to have you, Grey Warden," he said stiffly. "You'll find that Dungate will meet your needs well enough, though our food supplies are not what they were, with no crops coming in from the south. The King's Arms is our local inn. They'll set you up right well enough with hot food and a warm bath." As Moira nodded her thanks, the guardsman seemed to notice Loghain for the first time, and he visibly started; if Loghain noticed, or cared, he did not show it.

The King's Arms was indeed a respectable, if small, tavern; the innkeeper seemed happy for the custom and eagerly shouted at a servant to fill baths for his weary guests. Moira was immensely relieved to strip out of her armor and scrub the filth of the darkspawn from her body. After, she cleaned and polished her armor with relish before her growling stomach told her it was time to head down to the tavern's common room for supper.

"Ah, there you are!" Zevran called out as she emerged into the common room. "As bright and beautiful as a blooming rose," he said grandly, grasping her hand and bestowing a soft kiss upon her knuckles. "And as fragrant as one too!"

"Oh, stop," she chuckled, swatting his shoulder. "I'd hardly say 'not smelling like darkspawn guts' is up there with 'blooming rose,' though it certainly is an improvement."

After obtaining a refreshing ale from the innkeeper, Moira observed that her companions were grouped loosely at several tables throughout the common room: Leliana sat near Wynne, Morrigan looked haughty and bored per usual, and Oghren was firmly ensconced at the bar, seemingly content with a liquid dinner. Loghain, however, was off by himself, sitting alone at a shadowed table in the corner. Moira wondered if it was because he preferred the solitude, or because he had sensed hostility from the others and had felt unwelcome. Against her better judgment, she walked over to his table.

"I hope you don't mind company," she said, deliberately refraining from asking permission as she sat beside him. He glowered at her, but his heart didn't seem to be in it, and he merely harrumphed in response. Moira wondered whether, if she spent enough time around him, she would eventually decipher the distinct meaning behind each of Loghain's various grunts, growls, and scoffs.

"I don't seem to have any choice in the matter," he replied archly, his countenance lightening ever so slightly. "But your companionship is… not unwelcome, Warden."

"From you, that's high praise," she said. "I'll take what I can get." The serving girl bustled into the common room from the kitchens, setting a bowl of what looked like stew in front of Zevran, who made a rather ill-fated attempt to catch the girl's eye. Loghain scoffed, and cast a suspicious glance at Moira.

"Is he your lover?" Loghain asked bluntly.

Moira had been in mid-swig, and a gout of ale spewed forth from her mouth. " _What_?" she choked out, around the remnants of her mouthful of ale. "Who, Zevran? My lover?"

"Yes, your lover," he repeated, scowling. "Do not play the innocent chantry-mouse act with me. It does not suit you."

Moira goggled disbelievingly at Loghain. "No, he is not my _lover_! Though it was not for his lack of trying, I assure you."

Loghain scoffed. "He certainly seems to behave as though you are more than friends."

"Well, he is a bit flirtatious, but it's harmless fun! He's lovely, and it's nice to speak with someone who isn't so dreadfully serious all the time, who isn't fixated on the Blight or our impending doom." She paused abruptly as a very awkward realization dawned on her. "Are you jealous?"

It was Loghain's turn to splutter defensively. "What? No, of course not! Do not be foolish!" He took a sullen sip of ale, his glower returned to its full, surly glory. "I was merely concerned that you had formed an… attachment to a man whose loyalties cannot be fully trusted, and I meant only to urge you to proceed with caution."

Moira laughed, the irony of his words not lost on her. "You do realize that nearly everyone else has said the same thing about you?" She struggled to maintain an air of nonchalance. _He surely isn't jealous. He can't be. Why would he be jealous, for the Maker's sake? He doesn't even_ like _me! The very notion is absurd._

He snorted in disdain. "I doubt there is any danger of you forming such an attachment to me," he said.

Moira returned to her ale, dismissing Loghain's retort with a careless shrug, but her insides roiled. Of course there was no danger of her forming an _attachment_ to him! She might have decided that he was trustworthy, at least insofar as she could count on him to fight alongside her, but the thought of actually – well, it was ridiculous, that was all there was to it. But why then did he sound almost… aggrieved at the thought that she would not feel such things for him? _Was_ he jealous? She immediately dismissed the thought as foolish. She had been on the road too long, and now she was looking for something that was not there, imagining that he'd meant something he most certainly had not. And it was a moot point, anyway, because she certainly felt no such –

"Why are you really here, Warden?" His abrupt query silenced her inner musings.

"Excuse me?" She turned to glare at him, taken aback by his sudden change in tone. Whatever amiable mood he might have been in earlier was long gone, replaced now by a glowering displeasure that she was uncertain how she'd provoked.

"Why did you join me?" he grated. "Your _friends_ are seated elsewhere. Yet you chose to seek out my company, even though we can barely tolerate each other. Why?"

Moira was stung by his words; they were not friends, it was true, but she had imagined that perhaps he thought a bit better of her than that, especially after the rapport they'd reached the night before. And yet ever since she'd sat beside him, he'd been almost unremittingly unpleasant. Her disappointment transformed almost immediately into ire.

"Perhaps I simply wanted to understand you a bit better, now that you're under my command," She subtly emphasized the last three words for his benefit. "I need to ensure that you won't suffer from the same catastrophically poor judgment as you did during your 'regency.'"

Loghain stiffened, at once assuming a mask of cold assurance. "Ah, here it comes, at last! I knew you would not long be able to withhold your contempt for me, Warden! Let's have it, then! What insults do you have for me? I am eager to hear them all."

"Very well." She was as angry with herself as with him now, for forgetting that she was dealing with the man who'd wanted her dead not so very long ago. "You want insults? I've got one for you: slaver."

He stared hard at her for a long moment, and she wondered if she'd actually struck a meaningful blow, before he snorted derisively. "Of all the things that I have done, that troubles me the least," he said, his voice hard-edged with defiance. "Do you know how many soldiers I was able to field for every single elf the Tevinters bought? Thirty, at minimum. Armies must be trained, fed, outfitted. Where, pray, do you think that coin was going to come from during a Blight?"

"And that justifies what you did?" Moira shook her head, incredulous. "To protect Ferelden's citizens, you'd _sell_ those same citizens into slavery? What happened to defending our country from foreign influence?"

"The Tevinters had no interest in ruling Ferelden, unlike the Orlesians," he snapped. "What exactly do you imagine would have become of those same downtrodden elves when the Blight comes to Denerim? They are not allowed weapons, and you know as well as I do that the city guard will abandon the alienage to the mercy of the horde if it means saving the rest of the city. Is life as a Tevinter slave truly worse than death at the hands of the darkspawn?"

"You tell me," she shot back. "Is dying as a free man preferable to living under Orlesian rule? You certainly seemed to believe so."

"Orlais crushed all of Ferelden beneath its boot for nearly a century!" Loghain snarled. "Would I trade a few dozen elves to prevent that from happening again? Yes, without a moment's hesitation!" He narrowed his eyes, his brows furrowing intently as he glared at her. "Dark times require difficult sacrifices, of all of us. Can you truly tell me that you have never abandoned a single soul to his fate, if it meant saving more lives elsewhere? Can you claim that your actions have never had grave consequences – that no innocents were sacrificed to ensure the greater survival of a town, a city, a country? Can you?"

"This is not about me or my choices!" Moira rejoined, refusing to dwell on any painful memories his words summoned. "I certainly never sold any free men into _slavery_ , whatever else I have done. I don't care how much gold you raised for Ferelden's coffers. It was unconscionable."

"Then why did you not bring your evidence before the Landsmeet?" he challenged. "If you found my conduct so abhorrent, you could have easily ensured my eternal shame before all of Ferelden's nobility. And yet I did not know you'd managed to uncover that particular sordid bit of business until just now. Why keep such a volatile secret to yourself?"

Moira had wondered the same thing, especially in the immediate aftermath of the Landsmeet. She had primarily invoked Howe's barbarities to undermine Loghain's support, even though she herself did not truly believe that Loghain had ordered, or even been aware, of the worst of them. She shoved aside the uncomfortable notion that perhaps her desire to see Howe publicly disgraced had overridden whatever moral outrage she'd felt on behalf of the elves of the alienage.

"That hardly matters," she said, hoping she sounded more dismissive than she felt. "You had to know someone would discover such a terrible secret eventually. You couldn't have truly believed that selling Fereldans into slavery was the right thing to do, even if you did need to raise money for the army. Why did you really do it? I can excuse… well, I can _understand_ , at least, everything else. But I truly cannot understand this. Fighting a war because you believe it the right course of action is one thing, but selling your people – _our people_ – into slavery?"

Loghain lapsed into silence, and he cast his gaze down at his ale, staring into the murky depths for several long moments. When he spoke, his voice lacked the defiant anger of before.

"There had been… an incident, in the alienage," he said quietly. "While Cailan's army gathered at Ostagar. The Arl of Denerim's son… I forget his name."

"Vaughan?" Moira said, a slow sense of dread creeping into her gut. She had been hot with bloodlust, having just driven her blade into Rendon Howe's belly, when she'd encountered the foppish noble lord rotting away in one of Howe's prison cells. She'd quickly determined that the young lordling was, despite his imprisonment by Howe, every bit as nasty a piece of work as his captor. When the arrogant little bastard had dismissed the elves as animals who "sometimes mistook themselves for people," she'd thrust her blade into his guts without a second thought, earning horrified gasps from some of her companions.

"Yes, that's it. Urien Kendall's boy. Evidently, it was his custom to invite himself to elven weddings, and, ah, demand conjugal privileges with the bride, and all of the bride's friends and relatives. The young and pretty ones, at least." Thick, hot anger oozed through Moira, followed by a sense of vindication. She'd _known_ Kendall was rotten to the core as soon as he'd opened his mouth, and she'd been right. Any doubts she harbored over murdering an unarmed man in his prison cell melted away.

"Unfortunately for him, his last victim was not so passive. The bride managed to subdue the men guarding her, and went on a rampage in the arl's estate. She killed everyone except Kendall himself – apparently, he only just managed to escape by sacrificing his little lordling friends and his personal guard to buy himself some time." Loghain's tone made it clear exactly what he thought of Vaughan Kendall's lack of valor. "Terrible riots erupted in the alienage. Kendall's latest provocation, the bride's defiance… it created a perfect storm. By the time I arrived in Denerim, Rendon Howe had assumed control of the arling. He informed me that Vaughan had been killed in the riots, and that order needed to be restored in Arl Urien's absence." He paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "Urien had been summoned to Ostagar, but he never made it there. I do not know what became of him. The victim of some plot hatched by Howe, or perhaps his viper of a son, no doubt."

"Vaughan wasn't killed in the riots," Moira said quietly. "I found him, in Howe's dungeon." She paused, wondering whether to reveal her role in the affair, then decided that if Loghain could be forthright, so could she. "I killed him there. He was one of those nobles who used his birthright as an excuse to inflict whatever cruelties he desired on anyone he imagined 'beneath' him. I'd had enough of arrogant, sadistic noblemen that day, so I stabbed him in his cell."

Loghain looked askance at her, and he seemed almost impressed. "Well, the world will hardly miss him," he said archly. "But… that is yet another matter about which Rendon Howe fabricated an utter lie. Knowing what I now know, I would disbelieve the entire tale, except that the riots, and their cause, were commonly known in Denerim." He paused, as if gathering his thoughts. "Regardless, Howe convinced me that, in the absence of a proper heir for the arling, he would accept the burden of ruling in Urien's stead while I attended myself to the business of securing our borders." Loghain snorted. "He assured me that he would get the situation in the alienage under control. A couple of weeks later, he came to see me with one of his advisors, a mage. He informed me that this mage had contacts in Tevinter, and that he could arrange an agreement that would solve both the problem of funding the army as well as quelling the unrest in the alienage. When he… explained the plan, I… could not argue with his logic. So I signed and sealed the agreement. I believe you know the rest." His voice had grown bitter, and he took a long, deep pull of his ale.

"Wait," Moira said. She remembered the fight with Howe in his dungeon. Howe had not dared face her alone – he'd been surrounded by bodyguards, and she remembered his pet mage, hurling all sorts of fiendish spells at her and her companions. "He had his mage with him? I remember killing a mage when I fought Howe. He was performing blood magic."

Loghain creased his brows in confusion. "I do not doubt it," he said. "I am not sure how that is relevant – it should hardly surprise you that Howe would involve himself with a maleficar. As you demonstrated for the benefit of the Landsmeet, I was not too proud to do business with such a one myself." She recalled Jowan, the hapless blood mage who'd been sent by Loghain to poison Eamon – but regardless of any initial ill intent, Jowan himself had proven to be a fundamentally decent person, who had truly regretted the harm he'd caused in Redcliffe. There had been no such sense of humanity, or mercy, from Howe's mage.

"Don't you understand?" she said. "If Howe was surrounding himself with blood mages – Loghain, it's possible that he coerced you into that agreement. Maleficars deal with demons – he could have exerted influence over you, forced you to do something you would not have done – "

"Warden. Enough." Loghain's voice was at once firm and very tired. "I do not know why you now seem so eager to absolve me of my sins, when you were so determined to hold me to account for them mere moments ago. But I will not accept that any decisions, or mistakes, I made were not my own. I made my choices, and I will answer for them if I must. That is why I accepted your judgment, and why I swallowed your Grey Warden poison and swore an oath to follow you. You do not need to offer any excuses for me. I will accept none."

She shook her head, amazed at the stubborn pride of a man who'd rather accept the shame of having committed a terrible crime over the possibility that he'd been tricked or coerced against his will. "Suit yourself. If you'd rather take the full blame for your sins than admit that Howe might have been manipulating you from the very beginning, I won't stop you. But I think you ought to at least consider the possibility. Howe was a snake, and he could be extremely deceptive."

"And that should bring me comfort?" he asked quietly. "I would prefer to believe that I made mistakes of my own volition than to imagine I was weak-willed enough to be led around by the nose."

Moira shook her head again. "As I said before… you would not be the first otherwise-honorable man to be deceived and manipulated by Rendon Howe."

"Otherwise-honorable?" he repeated with an arched brow, a trace of wry humor evident in his voice. "I do believe that is the highest praise I've heard from you yet, Warden."

Moira smiled weakly, and she felt curiously relieved that their disagreement had, if not entirely been resolved, at least subsided for now. Whatever sense of peace she enjoyed, however, was tempered by unease over Loghain's disturbing revelations – about the atrocious situation in the alienage, the Tevinter slavery plot and Loghain's degree of culpability, and Howe's preternatural – and possibly demonic – ability to manipulate and influence even the strongest-willed of men.

"What happened to her?" she asked.

"Who?" Loghain frowned in confusion.

"The elven bride," Moira said. "The one who killed all of Vaughan Kendall's men."

"She was executed, of course," he said, as if the answer should have been obvious. "It was done before I arrived in Denerim. Her death was what sparked the riots, or so I was told."

Before she could respond, the serving girl scurried up to their table, two large and steaming crocks of stew on her tray. "So sorry for the delay, sers! We ran out after that dwarf of yours ate three helpings. Had to cook up another batch. Hope you enjoy!" She bustled away as quickly as she'd come after unceremoniously depositing the crocks on their table.

Loghain nearly growled as he scooped up his fork. "Maker, I'm ravenous," he grumbled, shoveling a large and undignified forkful of stew into his mouth. Moira attempted unsuccessfully to stifle a snort of amusement, and he shot her a glare.

"I forgot to warn you about that particular side effect of the Joining," she said as she raised her own fork. "The darkspawn corruption will increase your appetite." She watched, bemused, as he devoured his stew with gusto. "I suppose it is altogether one of the least objectionable consequences of the taint." Her amusement faded as she recalled the one rather more objectionable consequence she still hadn't discussed with him.

"Loghain… there's something you need to know." Her tone must have been sufficiently dire, because he set down his fork carefully and turned to look at her with a solemn expression.

"I take it you're about to reveal to me another delightful benefit of being a Grey Warden?" he said wryly. "You know, you can hardly blame me for my antipathy against your order. If you Wardens weren't so damned secretive, perhaps the rest of us would stop wondering what dreadful mysteries you were concealing."

"Believe me, I had no idea either." The bitterness, never fully forgotten, roared back in full force. "I was conscripted against my will, remember? I only learned of this particular… benefit… a month or so ago, when Alistair offhandedly mentioned it to me around the campfire."

"Well?" Loghain prompted. "Don't keep me in suspense forever, Warden. Am I going to grow a pair of horns? Perhaps turn into a dragon? Do tell."

"You jest, but you're closer than you think," she murmured. "Do you remember how I told you that the taint is slowly turning us into darkspawn? Well… that wasn't an exaggeration. The taint corrupts everything it infects. Everything. The Joining ritual allows us to control the taint, use it to our advantage. But only for a time. Eventually, it will consume even a Warden. When that happens… I am told the Warden is aware that his time has come. It is known as the Calling. When a Warden feels his Calling, he usually retreats into the Deep Roads, so that he can end his days fighting the monsters before he becomes one himself." She snorted a mirthless laugh. "Well, the male Wardens do, anyway. I saw… I saw what happens to women in the Deep Roads. I will put myself to the blade before I suffer such a fate."

When she did not elaborate after several moments, Loghain released a long, slow sigh. His face was carefully neutral. "And this… Calling? How long after the Joining does it take?"

She shrugged. "Alistair told me that Wardens usually live no more than thirty years after the Joining. Sometimes less. I'm told that during a Blight, when the corruption is stronger, that time can be drastically reduced." She forced a humorless smile. "So we're likely to enjoy another ten, perhaps twenty years at the most, assuming we survive the Blight at all. Oh – one other detail, though I suppose it is less pertinent for you. The taint also dramatically decreases a Warden's fertility. So I'll likely never be able to have children, either." She picked up her mug of ale and swirled it around, pretending to be engrossed in the eddying flow of liquid. "So there you have it. The glorious life of a Grey Warden. Short, brutal, and alone. Now there's a good slogan for the recruiting posters, don't you think?"

Loghain said nothing for a long moment, but when he spoke, his voice was soft, almost gentle.

"I am truly sorry, Warden," he said.

"Please, stop calling me that," she said. "I have a name. Moira. I'd much prefer you used it."

"Moira." The way he said her name – slowly, deliberately, as though it held great power – sent an unsolicited shiver down her spine. "You are named for the Rebel Queen. Maric's mother. She kept the spirit of Ferelden alive, when all hope was thought lost." He regarded her with a curious gleam in his eyes. "You are worthy to bear her name."

Only from a man such as Loghain could such simple words carry such indelible praise, and her face flushed hot in response. "Thank you," she said, fortunately able to speak the words around the sudden dryness in her throat. "That is kind of you to say."

He deflected her words with a soft harrumph. "It is not kind, it is true," he said, a bit too gruffly.

"A thing can be both kind and true, you know," she said, raising her eyes to his. A peculiar sensation percolated through her as she held his gaze, his ice blue eyes suggesting depths far beneath what she could see on the surface. The peculiar sensation gnawed at the pit of her stomach, warmed her blood, and she broke her gaze away abruptly, feeling an acute and inexplicable discomfiture.

"I believe I must admit that I was wrong, earlier," he said, the gruff tones softening somewhat. "I find you far more than 'barely tolerable.' You are more congenial than I expected, or deserve."

The peculiar feeling roared back to life at his oddly formal words, and Moira's heartbeat quickened, the way it did when she prepared to enter battle. "I… thank you. I never expected to – " She cut herself off abruptly. She never expected to what? To feel anything other than hatred for Loghain Mac Tir? But a mere lack of hatred did not account for the raw, unexplained ache in her chest.

"Nor did I," he said, leaving her to wonder what he meant. "But it has grown late. You should get some rest. Tomorrow will be another long day."

She cast her gaze around the common room and noticed that the rest of her companions had left (except for Oghren, who was slumped over the bar, snoring loudly). She hadn't even realized that she was alone with Loghain, but now that she did, his presence seemed to agitate her even more than before. She rose from her seat and stepped away from the table, feeling a vague relief at the physical distance that now separated them.

"Yes, rest will do us both some good," she said, rubbing her eyes in exhaustion. No doubt it was the ongoing stresses of battle, war, and the Blight that were affecting her so and upsetting her equilibrium. A nice, relaxing night in a bed would set her to rights, and calm her restive, overactive thoughts.

"Moira." Another tremor raced through her at the way he said her name, as if she were the Rebel Queen herself returned to Ferelden. "I know you did not choose this fate. Very few of us can claim to be the sole architects of our destiny. I believed that I alone could save Ferelden, and you can see where such hubris led me. You, on the other hand, committed no such sin, and yet you share my fate. It is not fair, but I learned at a very young age that life is rarely fair. All we can do is make the most of the chances we are given."

"I know," she said quietly. "Do not worry about me. I know my duty. But… I appreciate your words." She smiled softly at him. "Good night, Loghain." She turned and retreated up the stairs before she could dwell on the odd feelings he generated within her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was another talky chapter, but Loghain and Moira have to bridge quite the gulf between them. However, dear readers, rest assured that the next chapter will kick the plot into a higher gear, so stay tuned.
> 
> I owe a debt and an extra special thanks to the lovely EasternViolet, who has graciously volunteered to beta this story. Her assistance has already wrought quite the improvement in this chapter, and I have no doubt that this story will be vastly better thanks to her! Any typos or errors that remain are, of course, entirely mine.


	5. The Maker's Grace

The morning dawned bright and clear, and Moira had to admit that her companions' insistence on finding an inn had been a worthy one. She felt more rested than she had in months – though the inn's modest bed certainly could not compare to Arl Eamon's sumptuous accommodations, she was free of many of the tensions that had wracked her of late. The Landsmeet was over, Ferelden was united at last, and she had even managed to reach a tentative peace with Loghain – a peace which was not without its own complications, but a peace nevertheless. The darkspawn had been there, in her dreams – as they ever were – but so had something else; a familiar presence, steadfast and strong, sensed through the taint. She had grown so accustomed to the dreams that they rarely continued to trouble her upon waking, but this morning, she woke not only untroubled, but strangely comforted. It could only have been Loghain, reaching out to her through the taint – that was the only explanation that made sense – but it begged the question of why she had never once felt Alistair's presence, despite all their months of traveling and fighting together. Had he done it consciously? She couldn't imagine so – he would have been asleep as well. She wondered if he had similarly sensed her beside him while he battled monsters in his dreams.

Adjusting the straps of her gauntlet, she descended the stairs, paying the smiling innkeeper a generous bag of sovereigns on her way out the door. Emerging into the warm sunshine, her pleasant mood was chilled at once: standing near the road, engaged in a heated argument with a man in a guard uniform, was Loghain, a silver-gauntleted hand beginning to descend towards his sheathed blade. Swearing violently under her breath, she strode towards the brewing confrontation.

"You killed him, as surely as if you buried your blade in his back yourself!" The guardsman raged. Moira recognized him as the gate guard who had greeted her the day before. "You should have died a traitor's death."

"Your fool of a king was responsible for his own fate. A fate you conveniently did not share, I see. It appears I was not the only man who knew that battle was lost before it began." Loghain kept his anger tightly reined, but his hand had settled threateningly against the pommel of his sword.

"How dare you? I never abandoned his side! I – "

"What in the Void is all this about?" Moira's voice, hard as steel, cut through the exchange and silenced both men.

"Excuse me, Grey Warden." The guard bowed his head respectfully, but his eyes lost none of their blazing ire. "My name is Ser Elric. I was a member of King Cailan's personal guard. I was at his side at Ostagar, where my king – " his voice wavered with restrained emotion – "fell in battle, a victim of General Loghain's treachery! I demand blood vengeance from this traitor for the king's death!"

"If blood is what you want, you shall have it," Loghain said darkly. "But you can be certain that it will not be mine."

"Enough!" Moira snapped, glaring at each man in turn. "There will be no blood shed here, and that is an end to it! Both of you, stand down!"

Loghain clearly chafed at being so blatantly ordered about, but he nevertheless eased his hand away from the hilt of his sword, albeit with considerable reluctance. The guardsman at first seemed ready to defy her, glaring balefully at Loghain, but at last he too relaxed his posture.

"Ser Elric, Loghain is a Grey Warden now, just like me. He and I will fight side by side to stop this Blight. You will show him the same respect you have shown me." She took Elric's measure: he was clearly a proud man, and he carried himself with a military precision beyond what she would have ordinarily expected out of a mere village guardsman. His face twisted into a grimace at her suggestion that he respect Loghain.

"Mistress Warden, I – you ask too much! I cannot and will not respect the man who murdered my king!" he spluttered. Loghain heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes dramatically.

"Ward – Moira, surely we have better things to do than listen to this poltroon's pathetic bleating," he grated. "Let us be gone from this place."

Moira was inclined to agree – and the sooner she could put distance between Loghain and the indignant guard, the better. "Ser Elric, I thank you for your service to Ferelden," she said, hoping a bit of diplomacy would serve to soothe rankled nerves. "But my fellow Warden – " she made sure to subtly emphasize Loghain's title – "is indeed correct that we are on pressing business. I am afraid we cannot tarry here any longer."

"Wait," Elric said, reaching into a leather pouch at his waist. Loghain was immediately on guard, reaching down for his sword, but Moira placed a gentle, restraining hand on his arm, urging him to calm. Even through their heavy armor, she could feel him react to her touch, his muscles tensing at the contact. A sudden urge to squeeze his arm, to lightly run her gauntleted fingers across the gleaming silverite plate, arose within her without warning and took her by utter surprise; she quashed it at once, but the lingering tremors remained, as unexpected as they were perplexing. She forcefully dismissed the strange impulse from her mind, and refocused her attention on Elric, who had pulled a key from his pouch.

"I am loath to entrust anything so precious to the betrayer himself, but I do trust the Grey Wardens, and I cannot return, and… well, it is not right that our king lies there still, without a proper burial," he said.

"You wish us to return to Ostagar?" Not only was it a significant detour from Redcliffe, it was deep in the heart of darkspawn-held territory, and would no doubt be infested with the monsters. Moira began to imagine that perhaps the poor guard had been addled by his experiences at that ill-fated battle. "Ser, Ostagar is deep in darkspawn territory. While I share your regret for the king's fate – " she heard Loghain stifle a snort beneath his breath – "we cannot spare the time to return to the battlefield. I am sorry – "

"That is not the only reason you must go there," Elric insisted. "This is the key to a chest in His Majesty's tent. It holds all of his personal correspondence. I do not know what is contained in those documents, but they could be of vital importance to the nation! They should not fall into darkspawn hands, if it can be helped. Please, Warden. The king had the greatest respect for your order – he would want the Grey Wardens to have what was his."

Moira frowned, considering Elric's words. Cailan's personal documents? She could not imagine of what immediate use they could be, now that the horde was on the march, but… Elric was right enough that they might contain the sort of sensitive information that should be recovered. She noticed that Loghain's attention had piqued at the mention of Cailan's correspondence as well.

"Such vital documents, and you with the only key." Loghain narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "And here you are, freely offering it to us. Why have you not returned before now to secure your king's possessions and tend to his body, if it matters so desperately to you?"

"I am not offering it to you, traitor," Elric said pointedly. "I offer it to your Warden companion, who valiantly fought beside the king and did not desert him in his hour of need! I could not possibly venture so near the darkspawn horde on my own, but a Grey Warden could! Their skills against the darkspawn are legendary, their prowess unmatched!" Moira could only stare at poor Ser Elric, who had most certainly misplaced a few marbles on the field at Ostagar. She refrained from pointing out that if she traveled to Ostagar to secure Cailan's belongings, then Loghain was certain to see them as well.

"Bah!" Loghain snorted. "You've listened to too many of Cailan's bedtime stories. It was exactly these sorts of fantastical delusions that led him to ruin."

"Right," Moira said quickly, taking the key from Elric's hand before he could change his mind. "We will secure the king's belongings and ensure they end up where they belong. And should we encounter his body, we will send him to the Maker as befits a king of Ferelden."

Elric bowed his head to her, apparently having decided that Loghain was no longer worthy of his attention. "Then that is all I can ask. I thank you, Warden." Moira nodded, and, taking Loghain gently by the elbow before he could further antagonize the unstable guard, led him away towards where the rest of the party had gathered near the village gates, obviously brimming with curiosity about the confrontation that had transpired.

"Well, you certainly know how to make friends wherever you go," she quipped.

He cast her a sidelong glance. "That idiot accosted _me_. You cannot expect me to meekly submit to such provocation."

"I can't imagine you've ever meekly submitted to anything, no." Loghain might be many things, but 'meek' was assuredly not one of them.

"Exactly so." As they continued on towards the village gate, he reached out and gently touched her arm, motioning for her to pause. She turned to regard him curiously – it was rare for the taciturn man to initiate conversation, and her interest was piqued.

"Moira, I… only wished to thank you, before we rejoin the others." The halting awkwardness of his words made it plain that he was not a man used to expressing unsolicited gratitude. "You were under no obligation to defend me, and I neither expected nor, perhaps, deserved it. But it was kind of you to do so, and I appreciate it nonetheless."

Moira was rendered momentarily dumb by Loghain's gracious, if clumsy, words. She truly hadn't thought twice about defending him to Ser Elric. Perhaps she was so used to arguing with her companions about him that it had become second nature, or perhaps she had finally begun to believe her own words, and no longer had to justify them to herself.

"You're welcome," she managed at last, hoping he would not notice the blush spreading across her cheeks. "You're my – " Her what? She'd almost said 'friend,' but surely she could not call him her friend, not yet, despite the strangely electric tingling in her belly when she sometimes spoke to him, as she now felt. "My companion, and as such you have my support. We're in this together now."

"Indeed." He gave her a laconic half-smile, and she was left to wonder at what had passed between them, both spoken and unspoken, as they reached her comrades at the village gates.

* * *

When she explained her reasoning for the detour to Ostagar, most of them accepted it at face value, whether because they trusted implicitly in her leadership or because they were motivated by the simple desire to prove themselves in combat and earn some coin along the way. Morrigan had a shrewd look, but Morrigan always had a shrewd look, and, as usual, she declined to elaborate upon her thoughts. Wynne, however, was positively incensed.

"You are bringing _him_ to Ostagar?" The mage had cornered her later that evening, as they prepared to set up camp for the night. "I can think of nothing more disrespectful to our honored dead than to allow their murderer free rein to trample upon their bones."

Moira gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to comment upon Wynne's flair for melodrama.

"You have made your displeasure at Loghain's presence quite plain," she said, making no attempt to coat her words with any pretense of diplomacy. "I suggest that you get used to it, one way or another. He is a Grey Warden now, Wynne, and that means he is my companion, and yours. If you cannot tolerate that, then I suggest you return to the Circle."

Wynne sucked in an angry breath. "I do not appreciate your tone, young lady! I am not so fickle as to abandon the greater cause – unlike Loghain, my loyalty runs deeper than my personal ambitions."

"Perhaps you mean 'unlike Alistair'?" Moira shot back. "He is the man who 'abandoned the greater cause' out of personal pride, not Loghain."

"How dare you? Alistair was driven away by your – "

"By my what?" The dam holding back Moira's anger finally burst. "By my refusal to slaughter a man in a summary execution? By my consideration of the greater needs of the war against the darkspawn? By my decision to choose a living ally over a dead enemy? If that is so, then good riddance to him!" Wynne gaped at her, but Moira was not finished. "Alistair drove himself away, and that is the truth. He chose to desert rather than fight beside a man he didn't like, and that is exactly what it was – his _choice_. You may make the same one if you wish, but I am through explaining myself."

She noticed, after winding down her tirade, that the old woman's eyes brimmed with tears, and, despite herself, she felt a pang of sympathy. She had forgotten that Wynne had seen herself as something of a surrogate grandmother to Alistair, and that some of her resentment of Loghain must be an outlet for her grief for Alistair.

She heaved a heavy sigh. "Wynne, I – "

"No, Moira, you are right." Wynne's voice was so quiet Moira had to strain to hear her over the sound of the busy campsite. "Alistair made his own decision, though it grieves me. I know you did not want him to leave, and I am sorry for placing the burden of his guilt on your shoulders." She pursed her lips into a thin, narrow line. "But I cannot and will not apologize for my words about Loghain. I know you have decided, for reasons I cannot begin to fathom, to befriend him, but I will never be able to forgive him his black deeds."

At Moira's incredulous expression, the mage raised a hand, forestalling the younger woman's objection. "Oh, do not bother denying it – do you not think I have seen you, spending hours at length speaking with him? That no one else notices when you disappear into the trees together, or wile away the nights in front of the campfire together or over a tankard of ale at the inn? I do not know if you feel drawn to him because of your Grey Warden connection, or if you truly enjoy his company," Wynne said, her tone making it perfectly clear exactly how improbable she thought the latter to be, "but all I ask is that you watch yourself. Do not forget who he is or what he has done. And do not expect me to remain silent if he gloats over the destruction he wrought at Ostagar." With a final, admonishing glare, Wynne drifted away, leaving Moira with a jumbled confusion of thoughts.

She and Loghain were not friends. Were they? Their mutual animosity had certainly abated, but that was quite a low bar to set for friendship. They had reached a common understanding, and perhaps a shared solidarity – but again, that was hardly a standard for friendship. And yet hadn't she almost called him her friend earlier today?

Well, Wynne was hardly an impartial observer when it came to Loghain. She made no secret of how deeply she despised him, and she clearly viewed Moira's cordial relationship with him as tantamount to an intimate friendship. Moira sighed irritably. The last thing she needed to worry about was managing her companions' squabbles and disagreements, but she had a very uneasy feeling about this trip to Ostagar, and what Loghain's presence would bring out in Wynne and the others.

She saw Zevran, Leliana, and Oghren gathered around the campfire, Zevran deep into the telling of some hair-raising adventure or other, by the looks of things. Deciding she needed to do anything but dwell on her complicated thoughts about Loghain, she sat down by the fire next to Leliana, whose enraptured gaze was focused entirely on the Antivan assassin.

"Well, as you can imagine, the prince was less than thrilled to discover me in his wife's bed," Zevran chuckled. "But what could I do? It was she, after all, who had sent me a rather seductive missive instructing me to proceed to the mansion, all the while assuring me that the prince would be away on business in Rialto for another two days. I should have been more concerned when she appeared surprised to see me, but – alas! – I was young, and she was _very_ kinky, that one. So I believed it to be just another of her games."

"Oh, no!" Leliana squealed. "So she betrayed you?"

"Ah, not precisely," Zevran said. "It was plain that she was just as surprised to see him as I was! As it turned out… the prince's spies had discovered that his wife had been unfaithful. And so he forged a letter, in his wife's handwriting, ensuring that I would be at the mansion at the specified time. Then, he would arrive, discover his wife _in flagrante_ with another man, and slay us both in a fit of passion. It was a brilliant plan, really – what better way to kill your cheating wife than to catch her in the act? No one would ever question his motives."

"But you did not die," Leliana added, somewhat obviously.

"Indeed not, my perceptive friend! His plan might have worked, had I not been a trained assassin. A fact of which the prince was unaware, sadly for him." Zevran, despite his words, did not sound as though he felt all that much sympathy for the cuckolded prince. "But, fortunately for me, I make a point never to leave home without my, ah, tools of the trade. And the prince, however clever he might have imagined himself to be, was a sloppy assassin. It was not difficult to subdue him."

"So you killed him, then?" Leliana's eyes were wide with anticipation for Zevran's narrow escape.

Zevran laughed. "Of course not! As soon as he kicked down the door, I knew my simple dalliance with a beautiful woman had become something far more complicated, and – well, ever since the incident with the mage – I have always had a policy never to mix business and pleasure. And so I simply applied a bit of paralytic poison to the end of my dagger, just enough to render the prince helpless, and made my escape." He shrugged. "I had not received a contract for him, after all, and I am not a murderer! Besides, the prince had many enemies in Antiva, and it was not beyond imagining that another Crow had been paid to dispatch him. It is rude to poach another assassin's kill, you know."

"And the prince's wife?" Leliana asked.

Zevran tossed his shoulders in another careless shrug. "I never saw her again. I do imagine she must have had her way with her murderous husband while he was in thrall to the poison. She did not kill him, at least – I heard rumors many months later that he had fallen into ruin and was forced to sell off pieces of his merchant empire to his rivals. Perhaps she found a more sublime revenge than the taking of blood, yes?"

A more sublime revenge than the taking of blood. Moira had wondered, at times, if the fate she had inflicted on Loghain was worse than execution. She hadn't thought so, at the time – Alistair had been baying so loudly for Loghain's blood that Riordan's convenient eleventh-hour suggestion of an alternate fate had seemed a necessary lifeline, one she had eagerly seized. Moira stared into the guttering flames of the campfire, letting the continued conversation of the others wash over her unheard. She had never truly admitted to herself that she had spared Loghain for any purpose beyond the ruthlessly practical, but she realized now that she could not have gone through with his execution, even if Riordan had not offered the reprieve of the Joining. But why? After everything he'd done – what had stayed her hand that day? And why did her thoughts return to him even now, even when she was determined to push him from her mind?

With a frustrated sigh, she rose from her seat by the fire, ignoring the concerned looks of her friends, and made her way towards the tree line. They had camped not far from a stream, and perhaps a moment of solitude beneath the stars on the banks of the softly burbling brook would help set her mind at ease. She wended through the dense undergrowth, the muted rustling of the ferns and leaves against her legs accompanying the hoots of owls and the buzzing of insects in a gentle symphony. The forest was primeval and untamed in the deepening twilight, and as she emerged onto the stream's narrow bank, she had already begun to relax.

She sat at the stream's edge, easing off her boots and socks and dipping her toes into the cool water. There had been a stream on the grounds of Highever, a curving, twisty stream flanked on both sides by mossy, droopy trees. She and Fergus had taken every opportunity to escape their minders, to run down to the stream and lose themselves in a world without etiquette lessons or Chantry historians or the finer points of noble politics, to scale those small, sad-looking trees with branches that seemed made for children to climb.

Fergus. To her shame, she realized she hadn't thought about him in a while. She recalled her frantic need to search for him, to make sure he was safe, and how Duncan and Alistair and Morrigan and everyone had told her there was nothing she could do, that there would be time enough to search for her brother later, as if he were a minor footnote of little importance next to her grand mission. Did he live? If so, where could he possibly be? She took comfort in the fact that Howe had not bragged about his death, but with the darkspawn roaming about, and knowing she hadn't heard from him for months, she felt little ultimate reassurance.

"Are you all right?"

The soft, accented voice could only belong to Leliana. Moira sighed, ready to be irritated at the interruption of her solitude, but realized as soon as the thought formed that she was grateful for the company, for the chance to take her mind off of her litany of personal tragedies.

"I don't know." The answer was as honest as it was unexpected. "It seems that the harder I try to hold everything together, the more it all comes apart. I'm tired of trying, Leliana."

Leliana sat down next to Moira, slipping off her own shoes to dip her toes in the stream. "I know it seems like the Maker has placed a great burden on your shoulders. I suppose He has. But He wouldn't have chosen you if He hadn't known that you were the right person for the task."

"Do you really believe that?" Moira glanced askance at the Orlesian woman. "I don't think the Maker orchestrated the slaughter of my family and my abduction by the Grey Wardens just because He thought I was the best person to stop the Blight. At least, I hope not."

"Of course not! What happened to your family was an act of evil, driven by a cruel and jealous heart. But look at everything you have accomplished since then – who else could have united the land as you have, brought every race and every faction in Ferelden together against the darkspawn?"

"I'm not special, Leliana! I don't have greater power or wisdom or foresight than anyone else! I don't even know if the decisions I've made have been the right ones. I'm just… making it all up as I go along!"

"And you think Andraste Herself was so different?" Leliana challenged. "She was just a mortal woman, too. And yet She heard the voice of the Maker, and it inspired Her to great deeds."

"Well, if the Maker is speaking to me, He needs to be a bit louder, then, because I can't hear Him." Moira stared sullenly into the darkening night, her fingers idly picking at blades of grass. She had always been a believer – in the Maker, in Andraste, in the Chant of Light, in the Chantry's teachings – but she had never had the kind of easy, trusting faith that Leliana had. It was difficult for her to believe that anything that had happened in the past year had been a part of the Maker's plan.

"Sometimes the Maker speaks to us without words. Like the vision He gave me in Lothering." Moira suppressed an urge to sigh in exasperation – she did not disbelieve in Leliana's vision, per se, but she did not, as a rule, believe that the Maker went around implanting mysterious visions in people's dreams. "I know you do not believe in my vision, but perhaps the Maker has been speaking to you in other ways. You spared Teyrn Loghain at the Landsmeet, for example, even though everyone wanted him dead. But something stayed your hand. Maybe it is not so farfetched to imagine that He spoke to your thoughts that day."

Moira's heart skipped a beat, and she wondered wildly how Leliana had known that she herself had been musing over that very subject moments before, at the campfire. Well, of course Leliana couldn't actually have known – this was just an uncanny coincidence. It had to be.

"You think the Maker wanted me to spare Loghain?" She disguised her unease with a flippant tone.

"And why should He not? The Maker promises forgiveness for all. Loghain conceded his defeat. Killing him would have served no purpose – it would have been an act of vengeance and cruelty, unbecoming of the Maker's Light. By recruiting him, you avoided a needless death and also gave Loghain a chance to redeem himself and right his wrongs. And I know that very few others would have given him such a chance." Leliana patted Moira on the shoulder. "So you see? Perhaps you should doubt yourself less, and trust yourself more. You have come this far, and I know that the Maker will give you the strength to see this through."

There were times when Leliana's earnest faith wore on Moira's nerves; but there were times when it served to remind her that she was but a small part of something far greater than herself.

"Thank you, Leliana," Moira said with sincerity. "I hope you are right."

"I know I am right." Leliana gave her a shy smile, then rose, drying her toes in the grass before replacing her shoes. "The Maker would not have sent me to you otherwise."

"I admit, I was surprised to hear you praise me for saving Loghain," Moira said hesitantly. "I thought everyone else in the party hated him, and resented me for choosing him over Alistair."

Leliana frowned in startled surprise. "I do not hate Loghain. I hate many of the things he did, but that is not the same as hating the man. He lost his way and allowed his pride to rule him. It is a mistake many have made." From Leliana's suddenly subdued tone, Moira suspected that she was speaking of her personal experiences in Orlais. "He should be given the chance to atone. The Maker's grace is unending, and none are beyond His reach."

Leliana's words continued to echo in Moira's thoughts as she returned to camp, Dane greeting her with an eager woof as she approached her tent. The fire had burned low, the smoldering embers casting the camp into stark, foreboding shadows. Her companions had scattered to their own tents, bedding down for the night in preparation for the long march to Ostagar. Had she had spared Loghain so he could atone for his sins? Or was there some other intangible reason she couldn't yet define?

And now she was about to take them all back to where everything had begun, where Loghain had made the fateful decision that had set them on this path. Her eyes drifted towards his tent, set – whether by chance or by design – apart from the others, and she felt an irrational pang of disappointment that she hadn't spoken to him tonight. He had barely reacted when she had agreed to take Ser Elric's key and return to Ostagar, and if the thought brought him any sorrow, guilt, or anguish, she could not discern it. Maybe it was folly to stir up such old ghosts, or maybe Leliana was right – perhaps absolution waited there, for Loghain and for them all.


	6. Return to Ostagar

Ostagar was a city of the dead, utterly deserted save for the ghosts.

The march had taken the better part of a week, through inhospitable terrain and the Blighted remnants of what had once been peaceful, thriving villages. Signs of the darkspawn's corruption were everywhere: withered trees, naked and barren of leaves though Harvestmere was still weeks away; blackened, sterile land, incapable of growing even patches of grass; and, of course, the empty villages, sacked and ruined and desecrated with the bloated, defiled corpses of their former inhabitants. The mood of the company had grown steadily more somber as they forged deeper into darkspawn territory, and the lack of darkspawn to fight brought no comfort. Moira knew that if the darkspawn had abandoned the south, then it could only mean one thing – the horde was on the march.

The Tower of Ishal loomed overhead, and Moira suppressed a chill, though the day was warm and pleasant. She was already beginning to regret the decision to come here. All the old, terrible memories flooded back in force – her unwilling flight with Duncan from the ruins of Highever to this old, abandoned fortress, where he had informed her that her life as a Grey Warden would begin; his refusal to elaborate on any aspect of what that life might entail; his savage murder of Ser Jory, with the implication that the same fate awaited her if she did not take up the poisoned chalice and destroy her own soul with the darkspawn taint. And then, of course, the frantic battle, the king's insistence on charging the horde head-on and from the front, and that ill-fated mission to the tower, where all had been lost. She wondered what Wynne and Loghain were thinking, the only two other members of her company who had known the ghosts that haunted this cursed place.

As it turned out, she did not have to wonder very long.

"You can stop glaring at me, madam," Loghain's voice rang out in the silence. "My memories of this place are no fonder than your own."

"No?" Wynne retorted. "I remember good friends dying here, and the man I respected as my king. And I remember his most trusted general abandoning the field."

"All I remember is a fool's death and a difficult choice. And Maker help me, I would make the same again." Despite the rough bluster of his words, there was no pride or defiance in Loghain's voice; only weary resignation.

"After everything that has happened? Every terrible thing you set in motion?" Wynne's voice dripped with disgust. "You still don't believe you did anything wrong, do you?"

"I have done enough wrong for a lifetime and then some." Loghain spoke sharply and with a deep bitterness, and Moira turned to him in surprise. "But of all the mistakes I have made, retreating at Ostagar was not one of them."

"Even knowing that you set in motion a civil war?" Wynne's disgust had given way to incredulity.

"Even so, madam. I did not _ask_ for the fools in the Bannorn to oppose me, nor for that scheming bastard Eamon to play his usual games. If there was civil war, then blame must be laid on those who saw fit to fight me when they should have been sending their armies to secure our border and fight the darkspawn."

"Of course they fought you! You murdered our king!" Wynne exclaimed.

"Ah, such loyalty! Though sadly after the fact, I might note." Loghain's words were slathered in sarcasm.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Wynne demanded indignantly.

"Oh, so you did try to save him, then? My apologies. I seem to keep running into people who have claimed their undying loyalty to our dearly departed King Cailan, and yet who were mysteriously absent when he needed them most. I must have confused you for such a one."

"What? I was fortunate to escape Ostagar with my life, no thanks to you!"

"So you failed to rush to your king's rescue through the endless horde of darkspawn? Perhaps you too realized that his reckless charge at the head of the army left him in an impossible position? Then it seems to me you had no qualms abandoning him to die, either. I admit I struggle to understand why your desertion was an act of heroic loyalty while mine was an act of treachery and cowardice," Loghain taunted.

"I had no army at my command! I could never have reached him in time! But you – "

"Had no magic at _my_ command to break through the darkspawn ranks. I could no more have saved Cailan from himself than you could have. But I suppose you think I should have tried, regardless? No doubt the lives of 'mere' soldiers are cheap in the eyes of an esteemed mage of the Circle."

"That is a low blow, Loghain," Wynne said dangerously. "And what of the lives of the soldiers who fought beside the king? _Their_ lives meant nothing to you!"

"I suppose you think so, don't you?" Loghain's bitterness had tempered into a very real anger. "I have watched you, madam – you have hated me from the day I set foot in Moira's camp. You think you have me all figured out. And so I shall only say this once – _I_ knew all the men we lost at Ostagar. I knew their names. I knew where they lived. I knew their families. I know _exactly_ how much was lost that day. Do you? Or are your only regrets for a fool king who was willing to slaughter good men for the sake of a children's fable?"

"That's enough, both of you," Moira interjected. She had decided it was best to let them get their mutual animosity out of their systems, but it was clear that this particular argument would never be resolved. Also – though Moira was not quite prepared to admit such a thing out loud – she valued the opportunity to hear Loghain explain his motives for his decision at Ostagar, a decision which she had always assumed – thanks to his inexplicable decision to frame her and Alistair as the 'king's murderers,' and his subsequent, increasingly erratic actions – had been motivated by a desire to usurp power for himself. But ever since she'd had a chance to get to know him, her expectations had entirely been turned on their head. He was not the vainglorious, heartless monster she'd been led to believe – he was just a man, trying to do what he thought was right, and sometimes failing. Could she really claim to be so different?

"My apologies, Moira," he said, sounding, to her surprise, sincere. "Come now, madam. Our bitterness is better spent on the darkspawn than each other."

"Of course," Wynne replied sarcastically. "Maker forbid that I should waste any bitterness on you."

Shaking her head, Moira indicated the gate that led into the fortress courtyard. "The king's chest should be through here," she said. "Let us retrieve his correspondence and whatever else remains, and then we shall be gone from this place."

"And not a moment too soon," Loghain added darkly.

Moira advanced slowly, her senses heightened, prepared for an ambush. The courtyard was as quiet as the approach had been, though signs of the darkspawn were everywhere – discarded weapons, gruesome totems, corpses cruelly trussed up on display. It was hard to believe that a mighty army had once camped here, trained here, fought here, died here. The ghosts of the dead were an oppressive force, weighing down on her. She shivered again despite the sun warming her face, and ran a hand through her braided hair, hoping her nerves were not as evident to the others as they felt to her.

"I feel them too." Loghain's voice was soft, meant only for her, as he appeared suddenly at her side. "Their spirits are restless. Perhaps my presence upsets them. You should not have brought me here."

She gave him a curious look – she had never pegged Loghain as a superstitious sort. "You can't really believe that," she said. "I'd think anyone's spirit would be restless after dying in a doomed battle with the darkspawn. I don't think… I don't think Wynne is the most objective party when it comes to what happened here."

"And you are? How is it you do not share her hatred for my actions here, particularly after I took the opportunity to cast the blame for the disaster on you and your fellow Warden?" His pale blue eyes searched her face wonderingly, and she flushed under his gaze.

"I never said I wasn't angry about that part. You caused me a lot of trouble, you know, and sent more of your men to their deaths trying to stop me." She frowned. "Why _did_ you do that, anyway?"

Loghain harrumphed. "The nobility needed a scapegoat for the crushing defeat and the loss of Cailan. Maker forbid I'd told them that the king died because of his own rank stupidity. I needed a villain, and the Grey Wardens fit the role nicely, what with your _Orlesian_ commander and his refusal to be remotely of use in dissuading Cailan from his suicidal grab for glory."

"Duncan wasn't Orlesian," she said. "Not that I'm defending him, otherwise – his insistence on secrecy made a bad situation worse. But Alistair and I are Fereldan. You could have reached out to us. There was no need to be enemies."

"I think we already saw just how willing your Alistair was to work with me," Loghain said wryly. "If it matters, I did not blame you personally. You were merely a convenient target. Knowing what I know now, I… would do things differently."

"I – thank you, I think." Loghain merely smiled at her in response, and she was left once again wondering just how the man could affect her so deeply with so few words.

A tattered, stained purple flag fluttered in the breeze, and Moira's heart clenched as she realized it was the royal standard, still doggedly serving sentry at Cailan's tent. Whatever her feelings about Cailan, it saddened her that a king of Ferelden had met such a horrifying, lonely end, with no one left to mourn him. If Loghain was similarly affected, he did not show it.

"Here we are," she said. "Let us secure the king's belongings. If we see his body, then we will lay him to rest, but I don't want to spend any longer here than we have to."

Cailan's tent had been reduced to shreds by the elements and the darkspawn, and scattered within was the detritus of an army on campaign – discarded blades, stray pieces of armor, the odd bit of wood or fabric that had once belonged to some implement of war long destroyed. A sturdy oak chest, secured in place by a hefty bronze lock, still stood intact at the rear of the tent, a few deep-scored marks on its side the only indication of damage.

"That must be where the king's correspondence was kept." Moira pulled the solid key out of a pouch at her hip and fitted it into the lock. The lock was a bit worse for wear after months of exposure to the naked elements, and the key did not at first want to turn; but at last, the pins within the lock gave, and it sprang open. Lifting the lid of the chest with a somber sense of respect, she spied inside relatively few items – a sheaf of documents, a small jewelry box, and a wrapped bundle that looked to be a weapon of some sort.

She felt Loghain hovering close behind her shoulder as she picked up the documents, which appeared to be personal letters. The first letter was written in flowery, feminine handwriting. Moira blushed as she felt Loghain peering over her shoulder to read the letter for himself – she somehow felt like an intruder, violating the privacy of a family moment. But she quickly realized that the letter had not been written by Anora. It was addressed to "His Majesty King Cailan of Ferelden," and promised –

"The might of Orlais?" Loghain quoted, sounding equally outraged and vindicated. "Legions of chevaliers accompanying the Grey Wardens? I _knew_ it! I knew that little fool was ready to open the floodgates to an Orlesian army, and I was right! Chevaliers in Ferelden! Did he know how much was sacrificed to drive those masked barbarians from our lands? Did he learn nothing from his father, his mother, from anyone? To allow the Empress of Orlais free rein to send an Orlesian invasion force under the guise of 'reinforcements'? The war would have been over without a single skirmish!"

"You are blinded by your hatred," Wynne admonished. "A true Blight will not stop with Ferelden – left unchecked, it will threaten all of Thedas!"

"Yes, and what better opportunity for Orlais to strike than amidst such chaos?" Loghain retorted. "You are a fool if you think that Celene's assistance would come without a price."

Moira stared at the flowery handwriting for several long moments. The request was innocuous enough – a plea for peace, to set aside a history of animosity and work together to face an enemy that threatened both Ferelden and Orlais. But she could not disagree with Loghain's logic – what _would_ have happened once Orlais' feared chevaliers were firmly ensconced on Fereldan soil? She had not lived through the occupation, but she knew, from her father's stories and the history lessons Brother Aldous had given her, that it had been brutal, and that it had taken many decades for the Fereldans to at last gain the upper hand on the chevaliers, who had been ruthless and skilled in equal measure. To invite such an ancient, bitter foe into their lands again, and merely hope that history would not repeat itself, seemed to her a grave folly.

"We don't know that Cailan agreed to her request," she said carefully, as she shuffled the letter to the bottom of the pile. "Perhaps he declined her after all."

"Or perhaps, had he lived, he would have opened the border and doomed us all." Loghain's tone left no doubt about which of the two options he believed more likely.

The second letter was written in handwriting now familiar to her, and she recognized it at once as Arl Eamon's spidery script. Eamon presciently foresaw that Cailan's death would plunge Ferelden into chaos; he also reiterated his claim that Anora was barren and that Cailan should put her aside. She felt Loghain stiffen in outage behind her.

"That old fool never stopped to consider that perhaps it was his nephew who was shooting untipped arrows," Loghain muttered darkly.

"Loghain!" Wynne gasped. "You are in the presence of ladies! Must you be so crude?"

Moira stifled a snigger. Crude or no, Loghain had a valid point. She recalled her discussions with Anora, before the Landsmeet, when Anora had sought Moira's continued support for her reign; Moira had asked her, gingerly, about the rumors of her infertility, and Anora too had implied that perhaps Cailan had been the 'problem,' as it were – especially in light of the lack of any royal bastards, given that Anora had implied that Cailan did not adhere to a strict interpretation of his marriage vows. That such a possibility had never occurred to such august nobility as Eamon betrayed either a lack of willingness to confront uncomfortable truths, or another agenda at play. Regardless, that Eamon wished Cailan to set aside Anora was not news to her, not given the letters Loghain had presented to her from Highever. She picked up the last letter in the bundle – it, unlike the others, was clearly unofficial, and lacked any formal seal. It was also creased and wrinkled, as though it had been crumpled in a haste by its reader before being smoothed out and refolded.

_Cailan,_

_The visit to Ferelden will be postponed indefinitely, due to the darkspawn problem. You understand, of course? The darkspawn have odd timing, don't they? Let us deal with them first. Once that is done we can further discuss a permanent alliance between Orlais and Ferelden._

The handwriting was the same flowery, feminine script as the first letter – the author could only be Empress Celene.

"That cheating bastard!" Loghain raged, and before she had even quite finished reading the letter, he had spun away in a fury, lashing out with his boot to kick over a pile of rusty daggers, which scattered across the ground with a cacophonous crash. "Was it not enough that he dallied with serving wenches and painted whores in Denerim? His betrayal was so complete that he planned to take up with that Orlesian bitch?"

"Loghain! Mind yourself!" Wynne exclaimed.

"I will not, madam! You can read as well as I! Do you deny now that his _relations_ with Orlais go far beyond the innocent? He betrayed my daughter and all of Ferelden! A 'permanent alliance' with Orlais? He would have accomplished with one stroke of a pen what eighty years and an army of chevaliers could not! And for what? All so that peacock could strut about and call himself an emperor?"

"It is damning, Wynne," Moira agreed. "If Cailan had married Celene, do you really think Orlais would have been content to allow Ferelden its autonomy? We would have become just another imperial province. My father fought to liberate our country, and so did Teryn Loghain, and King Maric and Queen Rowan. I cannot believe that Cailan would have treated their sacrifices so lightly."

Wynne glared at Moira and Loghain in turn, seeing that she was outnumbered. "And what of peace?" she challenged. "Is your hatred of Orlais so deep that you cannot fathom such a thing? I understand that Loghain is incapable of being rational where Orlais is concerned, but I am disappointed in you, Moira. Grey Wardens are supposed to set aside political allegiances for the good of all."

"I never asked to be a Grey Warden," Moira rejoined bitterly. "I was not given a choice. I was born and raised the daughter of a teyrn of Ferelden, and I will not set aside my loyalties because Duncan conscripted me against my will." A dark, foreboding prickle tingled within her, an ominous sense of doom that pressed at the back of her skull, but Wynne's angry retort cut through her apprehension.

"Young lady, you are a Grey Warden whether you like it or not! You might as well accept your fate! Complaining and wishing otherwise will change nothing! Duncan was a good man, whether you want to believe it or not – and thanks to Loghain's betrayal of your order, this Blight has gone unchecked for far longer than it should have."

"Duncan's obsession with secrecy is the reason we are in this mess to begin with!" Moira retorted, the uneasiness rising within her as her blood began to stir. "He knew with certainty that we faced a Blight, but he was more concerned with keeping Grey Warden secrets than in giving such information to Cailan, or to Loghain! Had they truly understood what we faced, perhaps things would have been different, but they had no way of knowing for certain that the darkspawn were harbingers of a Blight – all because Duncan placed the Order above the safety of Ferelden!"

"I know you resent Duncan for what you think he did to you the night your family died, but – "

"Shut up!" Moira shouted, the black, malicious presence now overpowering.

"Excuse me?" Wynne demanded. "I will not be –"

"Be silent, old woman! They are here, somewhere." She heard Loghain's voice through the pounding in her skull. He sensed it too – of course.

"We need to leave. Now." Moira said. Her taint burned in such proximity to the vile fiends, far stronger than it had at any time since she had been in the Deep Roads. There were many of them, and they were moving fast. More than their small party could hope to fight off on their own.

"Agreed," Loghain said briskly. "You see, Wynne – a wise warrior knows that quitting the field in the face of overwhelming odds is the only way to survive to fight another day."

"It is not the same, and you know it, Loghain." But Wynne's heart had finally gone out of the fight, and as Moira gathered up the contents of the king's chest, the party lapsed into silence as they quickly retreated across the courtyard and back to the bridge across the chasm. As they moved, she felt the raging in her taint growing fainter, as though the darkspawn were – for whatever reasons of their own – unwilling to leave the graveyard that was the battlefield. As they retreated across the bridge, she knew that they were safe, at least for the moment being.

"Oh, _Maker_. Cailan. No."

The voice belonged to Wynne, and was so riven by grief that Moira's heart went out to the old mage, in spite of their recent sparring. She followed Wynne's gaze to the side of the bridge, where a grotesque darkspawn totem had been constructed, the centerpiece of which was the crucified, naked body of the king, trussed up on display as a warning or a cruel joke – whatever the possible motivations for such soulless beasts as the darkspawn could be.

Moira's stomach wrenched in revulsion, and she saw that Loghain, regardless of whatever his feelings for Cailan might have been, looked ill at the sight. Wynne sniffed loudly, and brought her hands to her face, wiping away tears, and – to their credit – everyone in the party remained quiet, allowing her a moment of private mourning.

 _I think Loghain was right about you_ , Moira thought as she regarded the desecrated corpse of the king. _You were a fool, and you would have damned Ferelden with your naiveté. But you deserved better than this._

"Well?" Wynne said abruptly, her grief-stricken voice tinged with anger as she turned to glare at Loghain, as if holding him directly responsible for the ghastly vision before them. "Spit out your venom and get it over with, Loghain."

Loghain furrowed his brows in a deep frown, and even he appeared taken aback by Wynne's hostility. "He may have been a fool, but he doesn't deserve to be strung up like this. No one does."

"No," Moira said, interjecting before Wynne could respond. "Take him down. We will build a pyre for him, as befits a king of Ferelden." Loghain curled his lip, as though he were about to say something, but seemed to think better of it. Moira positioned herself on one side of the king's body, and Loghain on the other, and, using their daggers, they cut him down and lowered him to the ground gently. She directed the others to search the nearby woods for kindling, and as they constructed a makeshift pyre, Moira looked down at the face of the king, so young and so feckless, even in death. She had never realized just how startlingly he resembled Alistair, and the sight of her friend's face, caked in his own dried blood, brought a tight lump to her throat. Her thoughts a wicked jumble, she strode away towards the tree line as Wynne and Leliana dragged Cailan gently over to the pyre, Wynne lighting it with a soft burst of magical fire. Moira sat down heavily, the exhaustion of the day overwhelming her, and she gazed indirectly at the guttering flames. She heard a pair of heavy footsteps approaching, and she was unsurprised to see Loghain's silhouette in the shadows as he sat down next to her.

She felt his eyes on her in the deepening twilight, and after several moments of silence, he snorted softly. "A grand funeral pyre for the fallen king. You should have thrown roses and waxed poetic about what a great leader he might have been had he not thrown himself on the swords of the advancing darkspawn."

"You object even to a proper burial for him?" She regarded him with surprise. He had been affected by the king's ill-use just as she had – she had seen it in his eyes. "Is your animosity so great that you would deny him even this final dignity?"

"And where are the pyres for the other men and women who died here?" His voice was soft, but defiant. "Where are their proper burials, their dignified farewells? Or do they deserve to be left to the darkspawn's mercies because they had the misfortune to lack royal blood?"

"You know that is not what I believe."

"Perhaps not. Still, every soldier who died here on Cailan's command deserves a pyre more than he. Even your Warden Duncan deserves such an honor more. Whatever else he might have been, he was a true warrior. Cailan believed that war was a boy's adventure story, and he died for it. A fool's self-inflicted death is not a tragedy. The tragedy is how many good souls followed him to his grave."

They lapsed into silence, the crackling of the flames their only company. Returning to Ostagar had raised as many questions as it had answered – how long had the secret plans between Cailan and Celene being going on? Had Eamon known of the full extent – had it been he who had encouraged Cailan to set aside Anora specifically to make room for a match to the Orlesian empress? If so, then the letter he had written to her father must be read in a new light. Moira shuddered to imagine that Eamon had very nearly drawn her father into such a dangerous game. Her father would never have consented to a marriage "alliance" between Orlais and Ferelden, she knew it. The peace was barely older than she was – did Eamon, Cailan, and their like really believe that Orlais did not resent its defeat, did not hunger for past glories? At least now she had proof that Loghain had not been entirely paranoid and irrational in his fear of an Orlesian ploy. She thought of how cannily Eamon had used her, playing upon her sympathetic friendship with Alistair to manipulate her loyalties. At least she now had proof of that, too.

"I can't believe I ever trusted him," she said.

Loghain raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Who, Cailan? He was the king. You need not fault yourself for your loyalty."

"No, Eamon. He spun me a whole sob story about how Ferelden could only be united with a Theirin on the throne, that peace would only come if Alistair were crowned king, even though Alistair wanted nothing to do with his heritage and never has. But all that time, he was moving behind the scenes to secure an 'alliance' with Orlais, under the authority of a king who would rely on him as a most trusted advisor." She cast a glance askance at him. "Of course, you had befriended Howe and were busy trying to kill me, so I really had no other options, did I?"

Loghain huffed an impatient sigh. "I believe I already told you I would have done things differently, if I had known – "

"If you had known what?" she challenged. "If you had known that I was not an Orlesian agent? I am a loyal Fereldan, Loghain. You knew my father. You should have known better."

"Yes, I should have!" His voice broke with anger, but Moira did not flinch – she sensed that his anger was self-directed, not aimed towards her. "I should have known better about a great many things! The farther I move from the chaotic events after Ostagar, the more I become aware of the magnitude of my errors. I will not wallow in self-pity, Moira, but do not mistake my refusal to dwell on the past as a refusal to admit my mistakes. No one is more aware of what I have done wrong than I. But I cannot change what has already happened. I can undo nothing. All I can do is move forward and hope that I will have the opportunity to atone for some of what I have done, in service to my country. That is all I have ever wanted."

His blunt, unexpected admission rendered her momentarily mute. Loghain was a soldier's soldier, trained never to show weakness or vulnerability in the face of the enemy, and Moira began to wonder whether he had been wearing his armor for so long that he'd forgotten how to live without it. Impulsively, she tugged off a gauntlet, and placed her hand on his shoulder, the metal of his silverite plate cool against her hand.

"It is a brave thing, to admit when one is wrong," she said quietly. "You have my respect."

He harrumphed, plainly uncomfortable with her sincere praise, but he reached up to his shoulder to place his own still-gauntleted hand on hers. "And you have mine." He chuckled softly. "If you had told me even a month ago that I would one day consider you a friend, I would have laughed in your face. It seems it is the Maker who has the greatest sense of humor, after all."

"Perhaps so." His gauntlet was cold on her bare hand, but she did not want to move, to break the spell. Cailan's pyre blazed into the night, shedding a soft, intimate light across the field and glinting softly off of Loghain's silver armor. Her other hand reached down, to adjust a stray leather strap against her side, when it brushed against a solid package, lying beneath the bundle of documents. The wrapped parcel from Cailan's chest. Her curiosity took over as she removed her hand from Loghain's shoulder and brought the package to her lap.

"What is that?" he asked. "Was that from Cailan's chest?"

"It was. It seems to be a weapon of some sort. I wonder why he did not have it with him during the battle?" She unwrapped it carefully, revealing a stunningly-wrought sword of dwarven craftsmanship, with a blade of finely-hewn dragonbone, inlaid with glowing runes, and a hilt of softly curved gold. It was one of the finest weapons she had ever seen.

"Maker!" Loghain breathed. "That's Maric's sword! I haven't seen it in years!"

"Maric's sword?" Moira hefted it to better examine it in the firelight – the blade was feather-light, and the balance was perfect. "Why in the Maker's name would Cailan not have taken such a fine blade into battle? Especially if it belonged to his father?"

"I do not know. Cailan had not truly admitted me into his confidence for years," Loghain admitted. "I think he disliked being reminded of his father's legend. He felt inadequate to it, in many ways. It does not surprise me that he would hide away even a sword such as this, if it served as yet another measure of his failure to live up to his father's deeds."

"Of course he couldn't live up to his father's deeds!" Moira exclaimed. "Maric freed Ferelden from the Orlesians – there was no such war for Cailan to fight!"

"And now perhaps you better understand why he was so taken with the heroic mythology of the Grey Wardens, and why he so hungered for glory at the head of an army that he seized at the first chance that presented itself to throw himself at the darkspawn." Loghain's eyes drifted to the pyre, the flickering light casting shadows across his brow. "Stupid boy. Why didn't you just _listen_?"

There seemed to be no response to that, and so Moira sat back, her shoulder resting lightly against Loghain's as they watched the flames in companionable silence.

"I want you to have it," she said, her hand brushing the hilt of the sword.

"What?" Loghain at first seemed confused as to what she meant, until he noticed her hand resting against Maric's sword. "No. Absolutely not."

"And why not?" she said, picking up the fine blade. "I already have a sword that suits me well. And you knew him, fought with him. If anyone should carry this blade, it is you. Take it."

"After everything that has happened, you think me worthy of Maric's sword?" Loghain stared incredulously at her. "Maric united Ferelden. I almost tore it apart."

Her eyes met Loghain's in the firelight. "You were his friend. He trusted you. He must have seen something in you that was worthy of that trust."

"And I have repaid him in fine form, haven't I?" He stood abruptly, turning his back to her. "No, Moira. You deserve that blade far more than I. You brought Ferelden back together after I nearly destroyed it. If anyone is Maric's worthy heir, it is you."

She was thankful that her blush was concealed by the darkness. "Such words carry weight coming from you. Thank you," she said. "But I do not believe you are so unworthy as you think. You were once a man Maric respected more than any other. Be that man again, the man he knew you to be."

"Why? Why does this matter so much to you?" He rounded on her, pale eyes blazing in the dim firelight. "Why do _I_ matter so much to you?"

"Because you are more than the sum of your mistakes!" she said heatedly. "Yes, you were wrong about many things. Yes, you made some dreadful decisions. But there is no one here –" she flung an arm out in the general direction of her companions – "who can claim that they have always done the right thing. Everyone here has made mistakes, everyone here has regrets. Even me." _Especially me_ , she thought ruefully. "I refuse to believe that the poor decisions of a few months erase a lifetime of good deeds. You are a good man, Loghain. You just need to start acting like it."

"You don't know me, Moira." His voice was brittle and rough, and Moira realized that at some point in the past several minutes, they had moved closer together, so that he was now a mere arm's length away.

"I would like to," she said, taking a bold step closer, and reaching out to place her bare hand against his arm. "If you would let me."

Her breath caught in her chest as he inched towards her, his rugged, hawkish features cast in chiaroscuro in the flickering light of the pyre. His eyes held hers and did not waver, and she felt rather than saw him nudge closer, his nose mere inches from hers.

"Moira, this – "

"Hush," she whispered, and she lowered her gaze from his eyes to his lips. Her own lips were suddenly dry, and as she flitted her tongue across them, she heard him hiss, a sudden intake of breath so close she could feel the air move between them –

"Hey, you two! Whatever Grey Warden business is goin' on over there in the shadows can wait. We're ready to move and make camp. No one wants to sleep next to this sodding place, and I can't blame 'em!"

Moira jerked away from Loghain like a puppet whose strings had been tugged, and she mentally invoked every curse she knew, in every language, for that thrice-damned dense-as-bricks dwarf.

"Yes, of course," Loghain said briskly, as if nothing had happened. "Your pyre seems ready to burn itself out, and we needn't tarry here any longer."

"Yes, we should set camp soon." Still cursing Oghren for ruining whatever had happened between her and Loghain, she quickly gathered up the items from Cailan's chest. Loghain had begun moving back towards the rest of her companions, but she stilled him with a hand on his shoulder. When he turned around to face her, eyebrow cocked inquisitively, she thrust Maric's blade into his hands.

"This is yours," she said. "I won't take no for an answer." She began walking away before he could argue, moving into the light of the dying pyre where her companions waited for her.

Behind her, she heard him scoff in astonishment.

"You are a stubborn woman, you know that, don't you?"

She smiled as she left him behind in the shadows to wonder exactly what had changed between them.


	7. The Currency of War

_That drunken idiot. Damn him to the Void. Bugger him with a rusty mace. Damn it, damn it, damn it._

Moira lay wide awake in her bedroll, staring restlessly at the roof of her tent, trying to will her turbulent thoughts into submission. The party was camped a couple of miles north of Ostagar, in the lee of a rocky outcropping at the head of the valley, and few words had been exchanged by anyone as they set camp, still troubled by the ghosts of the dead. The melancholy of that cursed place hung over her soul like a shroud, but – as she replayed the events of the night over again in her head – she found herself dwelling more and more on what had happened with Loghain. Or, rather – thanks to the aforementioned buggered and damned dwarf – what had not happened with Loghain.

She had nearly kissed him. The memory of his arm, stiffening in surprise beneath her gentle touch, the low rumble of his voice sending a tremor of excitement through her blood, the closing distance between them, so close she could almost feel his breath against her – and then Oghren, ruining it all with his damned obliviousness. Moira tossed fitfully onto her side and punched her bedroll in a fit of pique. What would have happened if Oghren hadn't ruined the moment? Would she have kissed him?

_Yes_ , her mind supplied absently. She would have. And, as she stared at the wall of her tent, she realized that she wanted to kiss him. Very much. She imagined what it would have been like – his lips against hers, perhaps his body too, if they had come together, if he had pulled her close, their armor clinking as his silverite plate came into contact with her white steel mail. The thought of it sent a shudder of longing through her blood, and she tossed over onto her other side with an agitated huff.

Where had  _this_  come from? She supposed Wynne was right – she could no longer deny that she had formed something of a bond with the taciturn general. Over the course of the past few weeks, they had certainly become closer – she had gradually come to understand why he had done the things he had done, and he had moved beyond his initial defiant arrogance and had softened towards her, recognizing where he had gone wrong and seeking to make amends. But there was a far cry between accepting him as a comrade at arms, and wishing that Oghren had not interrupted what was rapidly becoming an intimate moment.

She tossed over again. It was ridiculous, all of it. She had managed to travel with Alistair and Zevran for months without feeling any inclination to sneak off into the shadows for illicit kisses like a young love-struck fool. She was a warrior, a Grey Warden! She had bigger things to worry about than an amorous moment with a man who remained an enigma to her in many ways, a moment that had likely only transpired because of the emotional onslaught of Ostagar and all the skeletons it had disturbed. And yet the ghost of that moment haunted her, a spectral whisper tickling at the back of her mind and prompting her to fill in the missing pieces, to imagine what might have happened if Oghren had remained silent. To imagine Loghain's lips on hers, his body against hers, his arms around her…

Moira rolled over with a growl. She envied the damned dwarf, who likely didn't sleep so much as he passed out. She could do with a drop or two of a strong drink herself right about now. Anything to calm her rioting thoughts. She was being silly and childish. Loghain had been perfectly cordial to her afterwards as they had set up camp, but that was all – he'd behaved as if nothing had happened. She had followed his cue: remaining friendly, but fully prepared to put the nonevent behind them, because nothing  _had_  happened, and there was nothing  _to_  put behind them. He could be a mature adult about it; so could she. And she was prepared to bet any sum of sovereigns that he slept contentedly in his tent, entirely untroubled by what had or had not transpired between them, because he was Loghain and he was a stern, commanding soldier, a man who did not allow trivialities to distract him from his mission.

And yet… she could have sworn that she had seen something in his eyes, in that moment before Oghren had ruined it all. Something besides his typical laconic reserve, or even his occasional wry humor. Something that mirrored her own present thoughts: a spark, an interest beyond that of ordinary comradeship. Was she just imagining that, too? What if she wasn't?

_Enough_. She rolled onto her belly, burying her face in her arms. She could chase these thoughts around in a circle like a mabari after its tail, and it would get her nowhere. She considered Loghain a friend, as odd as that was to acknowledge, and she could even admit that he was an attractive man – she recalled thinking as much the night of the Landsmeet, when she'd accidentally intruded on him in his room, half-clothed. But thinking that there was anything more to their relationship was absurd – the product of a fevered mind. She was clearly exhausted, physically and emotionally, from the short- and long-term stresses of battle, the Blight, and the scars of terrible memories both old and new. He had put their encounter behind him already, and so would she, and that would be an end to it.

Thus decided, she snuggled deeper into her bedroll, willed her mind to accept her entirely logical and rational conclusion, and bade herself to rest. Sleep, however, proved elusive, and when she finally drifted off into a restless slumber, the darkspawn that awaited her there seemed almost a welcome respite from her tumultuous thoughts.

* * *

The morning dawned bright and early, and as Moira emerged from her tent, bleary-eyed and scarcely rested, she knew that they had a long day's march ahead of them if they wished to make it to Redcliffe within a week. She offered a silent prayer to the Maker that their way would not be barred by the darkspawn horde – although, she realized with a pang, if they did not encounter the darkspawn, then it would mean the horde had moved north, spreading a wider swath of destruction across Ferelden. All the more reason to make haste to Redcliffe, where Riordan had rallied the disparate armies she had gathered for the final push.

She spied Loghain across the camp, expertly disassembling his tent and packing his things together for the march. Her stomach flipped over, leaving her feeling unsteady and anxious, and she sternly cursed herself, reminding her foolish body that she had resolved not to allow the… incident… with Loghain to affect her further. Deciding that idle hands were the enemy of the Maker, she set herself firmly to the task of packing up the camp, and once everything was loaded onto Bodahn's cart, she felt somewhat more settled, her equilibrium regained. When Loghain approached her, she felt no nervousness beyond another slight flutter in her belly, which she firmly refused to acknowledge.

"Are we for Redcliffe at last, then?" he asked her, falling in beside her at the head of the column as though he belonged there – which, she reflected, he probably did, as the only other among them who routinely led soldiers into battle. She was relieved, in a way, that he had gone straight to business – they were simply two Wardens, fighting the Blight. Comrades and friends, perhaps, but nothing more. That made things simpler.

"We are. Riordan sent out the call to the allies I've gathered that the time has come to honor their commitments. When we arrive at Redcliffe, the Circle mages, Dalish elves, and an army of dwarves from Orzammar will be waiting for us, along with all of the soldiers Ferelden could spare."

"It makes me uneasy, leaving our border unprotected," Loghain groused. He caught her glance askance at him and snorted. "Oh, don't give me that look. I know the Blight is our primary concern, and it must be stopped. It  _will_  be stopped. But do not discount the notion that Orlais will seek to take advantage of Ferelden's crisis to make a move."

"We will cross  _that_  bridge if and when we come to it, Loghain," Moira said patiently. "We cannot fight two battles at once."

He grunted in assent. "Of course you're right. It was a tactical error to divide our forces. I realize that now. I am only urging you to keep one eye firmly trained on our western flank. It would be a rather unpleasant surprise to find a legion of chevaliers at our doorstep while the army marches off to fight the darkspawn."

Moira frowned, scratching at her ear in mock confusion. "Wait. Did I hear that right? Did Loghain Mac Tir, scourge of the Orlesians, Hero of the River Dane, and all-around stubborn arse, just admit that he was wrong about something? Without prompting? Truly, this is a day the Maker has made! Let us rejoice and be glad!"

He scoffed and cast her a withering side-eyed glare, but she saw, to her satisfaction, that a glint of humor danced in his pale eyes. "I have been doing rather a lot of that lately, in case you hadn't noticed. Impertinent woman. However, my contrition has limits. I will not don sackcloth and ashes and crawl on my hands and knees along the Pilgrim's Path."

She laughed out loud at the image of Loghain clad in penitent's garb. "No, I don't suppose you would, although I would pay my weight in sovereigns to see such a sight." He snorted in amusement, and they lapsed into an amiable silence. The fluttering in Moira's belly returned, reminding her uncomfortably that she had not been in such proximity to Loghain since the night before. An agitated sigh escaped her before she could hold it in – why was her body betraying her like this? She had already decided that nothing was amiss between her and Loghain, and nothing had changed. And yet every time he neared her, she quaked like a nervous lass. If Loghain noticed anything amiss, however, he mercifully gave no indication, and she resolved to let the foolishness trouble her no further. She was merely stressed, and her newfound friendship with Loghain was a bright spot in an otherwise unremittingly dark few weeks; that was all it was. Once the battle had been joined, there would be no more time to dwell on such silliness.

The march was long, hot, and uneventful, and by the time they stopped to make camp, she was thoroughly worn out, and her earlier nerves had long since subsided into a weary exhaustion. She gratefully collapsed on the ground near her tent, tugging off her boots and unbuckling her armor, thankful that Leliana had volunteered to head into the woods with her bow to hunt for supper. The grass was cool and soft against her aching feet, and she longed to lie down and pillow herself into its lush comfort; she realized, as the fatigue rapidly overtook her, that she must have gotten far less sleep last night than she'd thought. However, she could hardly justify lazing away while the others prepared the fire and foraged for food, and so, reaching deep into her reserves of stamina, she staggered to her feet and into her tent, at least determined to get out of her oppressive armor.

When she re-emerged, clad now in a simple linen shirt and trousers, she saw Zevran expertly dressing a small roe deer that had no doubt fallen prey to Leliana's arrow. Her stomach rumbling in anticipation, she made her way to the campfire to join her fellows.

"Oh, there you are!" Leliana exclaimed. "I think you will enjoy supper tonight. Venison stew, prepared with some herbs I was able to gather along the way. Not as many as I had hoped, but the darkspawn corruption has tainted so much of the land."

"That sounds perfect. Thank you, Leliana. Your skill with a bow has been a gift from the Maker."

Leliana flushed at the praise. "I am happy to contribute in whatever way I can." She handed Moira a basketful of herbs, which Moira, eager to help out, began to strip apart.

She felt a pair of soft hands move through her hair, loosening the braid, as she sat and worked. "Your hair is so beautiful," Leliana cooed. "I have wanted to play with it for ages. Will you let me?"

Moira laughed, her fingers working at the stalks. "If you like," she said. "I imagine it's rather sweaty and dusty from the road, though." She felt a peace settle over her as Leliana's fingers worked through her thick hair down to her scalp. The simplicity of the domestic task of preparing the herbs, the pleasure of sitting back and letting someone fuss over her hair, just like her mother used to do – it was almost enough to make her forget her present circumstances and the ever-present anxiety that haunted her dreams and waking moments alike.

"You know, you really should try another style sometime," Leliana suggested. "You are from a noble family. In Orlais, a noblewoman's hair is reflective of her station. The more important you are, the more elegant your style must be – I once saw a Grand Duchess who had a bouffant nearly twice as high as her head, and throughout it she had displayed a variety of gemstones, feathers, and other baubles – I believe she even had a gold-embossed fan stuck in the top!" She giggled at the memory. "Perhaps nothing quite so outrageous for you, but your hair is so full and luxurious – it would look so lovely curled and swept up, perhaps pinned in place with a ruby pendant to accent the dark red undertones? And with just a few tendrils falling across your cheeks? Oh yes, you would look so lovely!"

"Moira is pretty enough without your Orlesian ostentations." Loghain's voice sent a sudden, violent jolt through her, and she started in surprise – she had not even noticed him approach, so absorbed she was in her task and in Leliana's ministrations. "A Fereldan woman does not require such preening to be beautiful." Moira's face burned hot – had Loghain just called her  _pretty_? Beautiful, even?

"I never said she did," Leliana protested. "And I am Fereldan too, you know."

"Bah," Loghain scoffed. "You may have been born here, but your heart is in Orlais. You speak so longingly of their frills and fripperies that you no doubt grew accustomed to in the salons of Val Royeaux."

"Not everything is about nationality, you know," Leliana replied calmly. "Pretty hair transcends all borders."

Loghain snorted loudly. "That… atrocity you just described is hardly what I would call 'pretty hair.' A woman does not require excessive ornamentation or garish trinkets to accentuate her beauty. She is either pretty or she is not."

"This is true. Look at Moira," Leliana agreed. Moira felt the heat rising to her face, and knew it must be a particular shade of crimson right about now. Were they blithely discussing her "beauty" right in front of her? Was  _Loghain_? "I was merely making the point that I would love to be able to prepare her for a fancy ball. If she is so lovely dressed in mail and with her hair pulled back into a warrior's braid, how lovely would she be dressed in the finest silks and with her hair styled like a queen?"

"Only an Orlesian would be thinking of fancy balls and fine silks on the eve of the greatest battle of the age," Loghain muttered disdainfully. Leliana sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes as she stood up, collecting the basket of herbs Moira had prepared.

"Ah, you are impossible, Teryn Loghain!" she exclaimed. "Someday, the battles will be over, Maker willing! And then there is no shame in celebrating with the finer things in life. But you would probably wear that oversized suit of armor even to a victory ball. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen you out of it."

"Perhaps that is because we are at war," Loghain ground out with exaggerated patience. "With the darkspawn. In case you had forgotten."

"War, war, war! That is all you can think of! What will you do when the war is over, I wonder?" Shooting him a mischievous but significant look, Leliana traipsed away towards the fire, where Zevran was putting the finishing touches on the deer that would soon become their supper.

Her face still burning hot, Moira chanced a glance at Loghain, who appeared entirely nonplussed. If he had intended his comments about her looks as direct flattery, he showed no sign of it. Running a trembling hand through her hair, ostensibly to smooth it out after Leliana's ministrations, she took a steadying breath and refocused her attention on Loghain, who studied her passively.

"You shouldn't be so rude to Leliana, you know," she chided. "She is a sweet girl. And she's actually nice to you, which is more than you can say for the rest of the group."

Loghain harrumphed. "I was not rude to her. I said nothing untrue. I think I have been rather restrained in my dealings with her, considering she is an Orlesian spy."

Moira sighed in exasperation. "She is not an Orlesian spy  _anymore_ , Loghain! People  _can_  change, you know."

"Can they?" He regarded her steadily. "You seem very invested in this notion for some reason. The reformed Orlesian bard turned Chantry holy woman. The fallen hero who betrayed his country, now become a Grey Warden." He chuckled darkly. "I'm starting to wonder if you wouldn't give the Archdemon a second chance, were it to ask for one."

"I highly doubt the Archdemon is capable of redemption. Do you believe the same of yourself?"

He continued to regard her with a curious gleam in his eyes. "I suppose I should not be so arrogant as to place my misdeeds alongside those of a fallen god, no." His expression held nothing out of the ordinary, his face as indecipherable as ever; and still Moira was unprepared to meet his eyes, lest her face blossom into a scarlet bloom all over again.

She was being ridiculous. An offhanded, indirect compliment from Loghain Mac Tir, and she was as pitiful as a fumbling, besotted milkmaid! She mentally shook herself and sternly told her nerves to settle down. For the Maker's sake, she was more composed when facing a band of darkspawn.

"Well, I still think you should apologize to Leliana," she said, as much to redirect the conversation away from Loghain – and whatever his attitudes towards her might be – as anything else. "She means well. I know she can be very… Orlesian… but she can't help that. She didn't ask for her mother to pack her up and move her there, you know."

"Did her mother force her into a career in espionage, as well?" he muttered darkly. At Moira's unamused glare, he relented. "Oh, all right, fine. I am sure I will have ample opportunity to make nice with your little friend later. I suppose she is bearable enough for an Orlesian, after all."

"How generous of you."

"Your sarcasm is neither needed nor appreciated," he grumbled, but she heard the undercurrent of wry amusement beneath his surly tones, and she grinned at him in response, which earned her a "hmph" of bemused disdain. She realized she really  _was_  learning to distinguish the meanings behind each inflection of his various "hmphs" and harrumphs.

"You know, I think you are capable of communicating more through grunts than most people can through words," she said. That, predictably, earned her a righteous scowl.

"I do not grunt."

"You're not serious?" She laughed, enjoying his deepening frown. "You growl more than Dane does."

When he harrumphed in reply, she burst into laughter.

"Oh, yes, very well, mock me if you must," he said. "If I do, occasionally, 'grunt' as you say, it is because I am confronted with such foolishness that it is not worth the words it would take to respond."

"Oh, relax," she said, through the dying spasms of her laughter. "I'm only teasing you. You're quite fun to tease, actually. You're so dreadfully serious all the time."

"Yes, well, I am not like your Antivan assassin. I do not find everything in the world to be a grand joke for my personal amusement."

She shrugged. "Zevran is the way he is because otherwise I suppose he'd go mad, wouldn't he? How else could he make peace with taking lives for a living?"

"It is not an easy thing." Loghain was serious again, his gaze fixed now on the erstwhile assassin, who was busy cutting the deer into stew sized chunks while Leliana added the herbs to the pot over the fire. "You cannot become so hardened to it that you lose sight of the value of a life. But neither can you allow yourself to be so affected by each loss that your compassion paralyzes you into inaction."

"But what happens when you look behind you and all you see are corpses?" She thought of all the carnage she had left in her wake in the past year – the blood mages who had defied her in Kinloch Hold, the dwarves loyal to Bhelen Aeducan whom she'd been forced to kill in Orzammar, the numerous street thugs, mercenaries, and cutthroats in Denerim who had unwisely chosen to provoke a confrontation with her, and – worst of all – the loyal soldiers of Ferelden whose only crime had been to end up on the other side of a civil war. "How can you justify the cost when it runs into the hundreds, or even thousands, of lives?"

"The currency of war is life," he said grimly. "You pay it, and hope that the outcome was worth the price."

"That seems easy to say when it is not our lives that have been offered as payment," she said, the memories of faraway places and the lonely deaths of so many intruding on her thoughts.

"It is a reality that every warrior must learn to accept, if he wishes to keep his sanity." She knew that they were no longer talking, even hypothetically, about Zevran. "He must be close enough to his soldiers to understand the importance of what he is risking, but detached enough to see them as pieces on a chessboard, which can and must be sacrificed to win the war."

"That's monstrous." She shuddered at the ghastly logic, but also because she knew it to be true.

"I never said it wasn't."

No response seemed appropriate, and so she joined him in silence, watching the stew now merrily bubbling away as it cooked over the fire. She mused again over her strange kinship with this man, who had gone from being her enemy – moving his chess pieces around the board with the sole purpose of ending her – to her friend, with whom she now shared an intimate moment before the campfire. Her thoughts returned to the night before, to a similar moment of silent companionship, interrupted before it could perhaps have become something more.

She chanced a glance over at Loghain. He sat quietly, his shoulders sagging forward, as though the weight of the world pressed heavily upon him. He'd removed his gauntlets before approaching her and Leliana, and his bare hands rested against his knees, the fingers of his right hand idly rubbing at a spot of dirt that had splattered onto the gleaming armor. The urge to reach over and take his hand in hers was nearly overwhelming. She had taken his hand last night, before Oghren had interrupted them, but he had been fully armored, and all she had felt against her skin was cold metal. She wondered what his hands themselves would feel like – so large and imposing, so much bigger than hers. Were they callused in the same places hers were, from the long practice of a lifetime of swordsmanship, and rough to the touch? Were they warm? Was his caress gentle? Or had he forgotten how to be gentle with anything, even a woman?

She dimly remembered that his wife had died many years ago. She recalled a few occasions, when she had been stuck in a drawing room in Denerim with other daughters of the nobility while their parents met to discuss politics, that the subject of Loghain's remarriage had come up. Rumors were constantly circulating over whether the Teyrn of Gwaren would take a new wife. Becoming a teyrna would have been a dream come true for many of the young, vapid girls who had tittered away in those elegant chambers, while Moira had languished in boredom and wished more than anything to be outside with Fergus, doing literally anything else. Such ladies were not actually attracted to Loghain, of course – he was far older than all of them – but none of them had expected to be attracted to their future husbands, anyway, so why not aim for a higher title than being the lady wife of some corpulent bann, wasting away one's life on a small holding in the farmlands?

Moira, of course, had never joined in on such conversations. She had always emphatically refused to engage in any discussions with her father over potential future mates, and every time he gingerly attempted to raise the subject, she'd insisted that she would find her  _own_  husband, thank you very much. It had seemed so simple at the time – she had trained, with Fergus, in the arts of war, and eventually she would lead Highever's forces in some battle or other, for the glory of the king. There, she would meet the handsome young son of some arl or bann; a sturdy, valiant man who was as comfortable in a suit of armor and a saddle as he was in a Denerim palace. He would be impressed by her skill at arms, and she by his lack of foppish pretense; they would fall in love, and the marriage would take place in Highever. She would hang up her sword, put away her suit of armor, and leave behind her life as a shield-maiden to retire to her new husband's bannorn, where she would raise their children in just the same kind of loving home as she had grown up in herself. It had been a good dream, and her father, as exasperated as he might have been to have all of his overtures rejected, had never seriously attempted to dissuade her. After all, he had married a woman he loved, and so had Fergus – why should his daughter too not get the chance at her happy ending? And then Howe had come to Highever, and her dream had finally died, in fire and blood and the poisoned chalice of the Grey Wardens.

"Moira?" Loghain's voice, surprisingly gentle, brought her out of her reverie. "Are you all right?"

"Of course," she lied. "Why shouldn't I be?"

"You're crying."

Alarmed, she reached up to her face, and found her cheeks moist with unconsciously shed tears. She wiped them away vigorously, embarrassed and angry with herself that she had shown such weakness in front of Loghain, of all people.

"It's nothing." Her voice came out far harsher than she'd intended. "I'm fine. Just… memories that should not have been stirred."

"Hey." He reached over to her, and she discovered that his hands  _were_  warm, and they  _were_  callused in all the same places, and he  _was_  capable of being gentle, as he cradled her much smaller hand in his own. "Never be ashamed of your grief. It is what makes us human." He sighed, and her breath caught in her throat as he softly moved his thumb across the back of her wrist. "You cannot let it overwhelm you, of course. But if you trap it inside, hide it away and refuse to release it from time to time, it will consume you from within." His voice carried enough of a tinge of bitterness that she knew he spoke from experience.

She sniffed, her sorrow ebbing away as his thumb stroked rhythmically across her skin. She stared at their entwined hands, his so large and rough next to hers, and, daring greatly, she squeezed his fingers in her own, a gentle pressure that drew a hiss of surprise from him. She looked up at him, then, and there was no ambiguity in his pale blue eyes tonight; there was curiosity, and warmth, and –

"Uhm." A delicate, accented voice coughed gently, and –  _not again_  – Moira whipped her head around in frustration to face a decidedly abashed Leliana, who – unlike Oghren – seemed fully aware that she was interrupting something. She at least had the good grace to look ashamed. Moira's heart panged as she felt Loghain release her hand unceremoniously, each of them drawing away from the other, the moment lost.

"I'm sorry," Leliana said gingerly. "But the stew is ready. Everyone else, um, has already served themselves. It is just the two of you who have not eaten." In other words, Moira thought darkly, her nosy friends were wondering what exactly was going on between she and Loghain, so absorbed in each other that they had forgotten about supper.

She sighed irritably, determined not to kill the messenger. "Thank you, Leliana," she said, her tone insinuating anything but gratitude. "Maker forbid Loghain or I should starve."

Once again, he was politely cordial to her as they ventured over to the fire and filled their bowls with venison stew. Once again, he behaved much as he had over the past few days – friendly, but reserved, as if nothing had happened. And once again, as Moira devoured her stew (which  _was_  quite nice – she would have to properly thank Leliana later, when her irritation had abated), her thoughts were consumed by a succession of images depicting what might have happened had they not been so rudely intruded upon. As she finished her supper and prepared to bed down for the night, he, once again bid her a good night – entirely cordially, and amiably, and politely, of course. But nothing more.

Once again, she tossed and turned in her bedroll, sleepless and agitated. This time, she made no effort to lie to herself, or pretend that she was fabricating something out of nothing. But whether that something was only present in her own heart – that remained entirely a mystery to her.

Tossing over with a violence that startled even Dane, sleeping at the foot of her bedroll, she lay glaring at her tent roof for the second night in a row, bidding sleep to come, and cursing it when it failed to obey her command. At least, she thought with no small amount of black humor, they were less than a week away from Redcliffe, and then she would hardly have time to worry about her  _feelings_  for Loghain. Even a Blight of darkspawn, led by a demonic, corrupted Old God, was preferable to sorting out the matters of her heart.

Somewhat amused by her own mordant humor, Moira at last fell into a heavy, exhausted sleep, where, as always, the darkspawn awaited her in her dreams.


	8. The Only Way

Redcliffe Castle loomed in the distance, standing as a solitary sentinel against the unsettling aura of doom that shrouded the land like a fog. Signs of the darkspawn's presence were everywhere: the swaths of dead, trampled grass that marred the otherwise-green hills like a scar; the oily, blackened leaves that hung listlessly from tainted trees; the oppressive weight of the air, hanging heavy and funereal and utterly still, an unnatural silence interrupted only by the buzzing of insects that fed on the desecrated dead.

Moira's sleep had gotten progressively less restful with every night they neared Redcliffe, until at last she had spent the entire previous night tossing over and over again in agitation, never once fully slipping into unconsciousness. She recalled the undead horrors from her last visit to Redcliffe, their bodies shambling unerringly forward, thinking and feeling nothing, and wondered if this was how it felt to be an animated corpse, not quite living and not quite dead. She moved forward without a thought, her body remembering to put one foot in front of the other, running on reserves of stamina and adrenaline that her mind could not even consciously summon. She wondered how long she could keep going like this, how long her body could function independently while her mind floated somewhere above her, curiously detached from its physical presence, as if it remained stubbornly in the Fade while her body moved through the waking world alone.

The intervening days and lack of sleep had only further complicated her already-puzzling relationship with Loghain. He had continued to be friendly and solicitous to her, even kind: he often greeted her with a smile, albeit a reserved half-smile that only just reached his eyes, and he made a point of tacitly supporting her when he sensed her strength was faltering; a word of reassurance here, a show of solidarity there. She found herself leaning on him, at least figuratively, more and more as they drew closer to Redcliffe and her restiveness grew, and before long she had taken to confiding in him entirely at meals and before bedding down for the night, their brief but insightful conversations offering her a spot of solace amidst the crushing weight of her burdens. Her feelings for him continued to complicate and bedevil her; just when she was certain that a moment was upon them, a moment like the ones they'd shared at Ostagar and before the campfire the night after, he would pull away, almost imperceptibly, and it would vanish into the ether. She had caught glimpses of the others, doing their best to pretend not to notice her and Loghain deep in conversation night after night, but she knew better; she knew they gossiped, and wondered, and mused over the exact nature of the relationship between the two Grey Wardens. She would have had no answers for them, had they asked directly; she was as perplexed and intrigued as they were.

The morning before, she had made her way to a small stream near their campground, keen to wash the grime of her restless night from her before they got under way. She had stripped to her linen shirt and a soft, loose pair of trousers and had padded towards the banks of the stream, eager for her bath, when she spotted him: crouched over the water, his shirtless back to her, slowly scraping a vicious-looking razor neatly across his jaw. Her breath caught in her throat and she froze, standing there, watching his slow movements in a mesmerized trance; the gentle play of his muscles across his back as his arm moved, his wrist flicking delicately to bring the savage blade smoothly across the contours of his rugged face, the razor held firm in his large, steady hand. It was entirely different from the first time she had seen him in such a state of dishabille, the evening of his Joining; then, his lack of clothing had merely been embarrassing and uncomfortable, and though she had objectively noted that he was an attractive man, she had spared no further thought for his appearance, as angry and unsettled as she was after the debacle of the Landsmeet. But the sight of him kneeling before the river, his strong, firm muscles interplaying in a symphony of silent strength, sent a rush of hot blood coursing through her veins, her nerves tingling with electricity. Time slipped away as she stood there, silently watching him, until he set his razor aside and leaned over, gathering a handful of water from the stream and splashing it across his face. He stood, and his bemused voice echoed through the glade and shattered her trance.

"If you were waiting for me to finish before you perform your morning ablutions, I appreciate the courtesy. Next time, however, you might wish to announce your presence sooner. I dislike being silently watched in the woods. An old habit from the days of the occupation, I imagine." He turned towards her, affording her a view of his bare torso, the taut muscles rippling beneath a modest furring of coarse black hair, as he made his way past her and back towards the camp, smirking wryly as he tugged his shirt over his head. It was several moments after he'd disappeared through the trees before she could move again, her heart hammering in her breast and her pulse thrumming. She'd been thankful for the stark, icy cold of the stream.

The incident had unnerved her all that day, but she could no longer determine which reactions were a result of her deepening fatigue and which were genuinely felt. She knew that Loghain stirred something in her that none of her other companions did – indeed, that no other man ever had – but she also knew that she was at a real risk of wildly misinterpreting otherwise mundane, innocuous interactions. The chances that he might have engaged in any of his behavior with anything other than platonic camaraderie in mind were extremely slim; he was old enough to be her father, for Maker's sake, and indeed he had a daughter a few years older than she. They had come to a peace; perhaps he regarded her as a friend. Everything else could only be the fever dream of a weary mind, pushed beyond its limits.

She shook her head hard, clearing away the cobwebs that gathered in the crawlspaces of her mind. They were on the outskirts of Redcliffe Village even now; the sign of darkspawn presence was all around them, but the fiends were either dead or had been driven away by the armies that had recently bivouacked here. They must all now be gathered up within the castle walls, waiting only for her and Loghain to arrive, to lead the charge into the darkspawn ranks and draw the Archdemon into battle. An end, at last, after all these months. She didn't know whether to feel terrified or relieved.

"Are you all right? You have seemed out of sorts for a few days now." Loghain's words were quietly spoken, so that none of the others could hear and mistake his concern for doubt in her abilities. She glanced over at him, his brows furrowed in worry, and smiled; never could she have imagined Loghain Mac Tir capable of such sensitivity.

"I'll be fine. I'm just tired, that's all." He bowed his head in a silent acknowledgement of her answer, though she could see in his eyes that her words had not quite convinced him.

"It has been a long and grueling road," he agreed. "But when we get to Redcliffe, you need to rest. The coming battle will demand every ounce of strength and cunning you can muster, and then it will demand even more. You cannot hope to prevail if you are too exhausted to think or act clearly." He kept his voice low, but his tone brooked no argument.

"I know. You're right. But… I can't help but think that I won't truly be able to rest – I mean, really, _truly_ rest – until it is all over," she said. "Everything that has happened in my life since that night at Highever has been in preparation for this moment. Everything I've done, all the allies I've gained and all the people I've killed… it's all been for this." She looked up at Redcliffe Castle, a lone bulwark against the dangers of the frontier in remote western Ferelden, the place from which they would mount their last stand against the darkspawn. "And what if it's all been for nothing? If we fail here, the Blight will consume Ferelden. Everything we know and love will be burnt to ashes and dust."

"Moira." His voice was firmer this time as he reached over to grasp her arm, squeezing her through their armor. Despite her soul-crushing exhaustion, a thrill raced through her blood at the contact. "You must not give into despair! It is a more dangerous enemy than all the darkspawn lurking in the Deep Roads could ever be! I have seen mighty armies laid low, not by the strength of their enemies' blades or the sheer number of their foes, but by their own lack of resolve."

His words were compelling, but they did not succeed in fully banishing the doubt that gnawed at the back of her mind. "And what of Ostagar? Was the battle lost because you lacked resolve? Or because the darkspawn were simply too numerous? However many darkspawn were at Ostagar, there will be even more now – along with the possibility of the Archdemon."

He pursed his lips together in frustration. "Ostagar was a disaster in the making from the moment Cailan decided to throw caution to the wind and make his bid for eternal glory. He wasn't even willing to wait for all of Ferelden's soldiers to arrive – and thank the Maker for that, at least, or we doubtless would have lost even more than we did." A strange expression crossed his face, briefly, but then it was gone as if it had never been there at all. "But Ostagar's follies will not be repeated. This time you have secured other allies – the mighty dwarven armies, a band of Dalish hunters, the entire Circle of Magi rather than the paltry few Irving and his templar handler saw fit to send to Cailan." He regarded her seriously, with a look of deep respect. "And, most importantly, you are not Cailan. You are not a glory hound or a fool. You are a brave warrior and a cunning strategist, and with you at the head of our army, we actually have a chance."

She might have dismissed the words as meaningless puffery from anyone else, but Loghain was not a man inclined to inflate his opinions of others, either out of a need to flatter or a desire to ingratiate. Coming from him, she was almost inclined to believe them.

"Thank you," she said quietly, and placed a hand over his gauntlet that still rested on her arm. "I mean it. Thank you for supporting me. You did not have to…" She trailed into silence, unable to put into words how much their changing relationship, from foe to companion to friend, had meant to her.

He grunted, and she sensed an undercurrent of abashment as he withdrew his hand from her arm, though not without a final, almost imperceptible squeeze.

"It's nothing," he said, and she smiled to herself, because it was not nothing, not at all.

It was plain, as they made their way past Redcliffe Village and through the narrow hills towards the castle, that a battle had been fought not long ago: the bodies of darkspawn, as hideous and deformed in death as they were in life, littered the grass, although the bodies of the fallen men were nowhere to be found – they had already been treated to proper funerals, then. At last, as they reached the massive gates to the keep, she spotted a small company of guards, wearing Eamon's livery. The gate guard, a brawny man with a large, droopy mustache, put his arm over his chest and bowed his head in a martial salute.

"Greetings, Wardens. I was told to keep a watch for you," he said. "The arl requests your presence right away. He must inform you of the latest developments." As the guard hustled them inside the castle's courtyard and motioned for two of his comrades to close the massive gates behind them, Moira allowed a wave of irritation to wash over her at Eamon's imperious summons. She supposed she was being unfair; the arling of Redcliffe _was_ his domain, after all, and it was only proper that he should oversee any affairs that affected it, especially something as momentous as a darkspawn incursion. But she could not entirely banish the sour taste in her mouth whenever she thought of the way Eamon had insinuated himself so thoroughly into the machinations of the past few months and positioned himself as her advisor, when all along he'd merely seen a chance to place a more malleable king on the throne of Ferelden, one whom he could bend to his will. She recalled, with a bitter distaste, that he hadn't even bothered to mention Alistair in passing after her friend had stormed away at the Landsmeet. Apparently, once Alistair could no longer fulfill his prophesized role, Eamon had had no more use for him. He had been cool to her generally since the conclusion of the Landsmeet – whether he blamed her more for Alistair's disappearance, or for sparing Loghain's life and preserving Anora's rule, she could not say for certain.

But engaging in a petty quibble with an ally would not do, not on the eve of battle. And so Moira steeled herself as the guard opened the great doors to the castle, and escorted her, Loghain, and the rest of their party into the grand hall, where she spotted Eamon, Teagan, and a bevy of other advisors, soldiers, and representatives. A sudden hush fell over the chattering emissaries as Moira led the Grey Warden party into the lavishly decorated hall, and she greeted Eamon with a cordial nod.

"Ah, Warden Cousland. It is good that you are here." Eamon's greeting was, if not warm, then at least polite; but there was a definite coolness to his gaze that gave evidence to the chill between them. He turned to her fellow Warden, and there he made little attempt to hide his distaste.

"Loghain." The word was spoken more as an acknowledgement compelled by social protocol than a true greeting, and Moira could sense, in the tensing of his body next to hers, that Loghain shared the sentiment.

"Eamon," he returned levelly. If he wanted to bait the other man further, he at least had the good grace and sense not to do so now, for which Moira was grateful.

"Your guard informed me of your summons," she said without prelude. "I admit, Arl Eamon, I expected to face more resistance reaching Redcliffe. Has the horde not yet emerged? I should have thought to fight more on the road from the south."

"Ah, yes, about that." Moira stiffened; Eamon spoke in the tones of a man who knew that his next words would not be well received. "It seems that we were… mistaken. The horde is not here after all."

Moira stared at Eamon, her incomprehension mounting. "Not here? But we marched from Denerim on reports that the horde had been sighted west of Redcliffe! In truth, I feared we might arrive late, and find the town under siege." How could the darkspawn not be here at _all_? And, more importantly… if they were not here, where _were_ they?

"I'm afraid the darkspawn besieging Redcliffe must have merely been a small group, broken off from the main horde." Eamon, to his credit, had the grace to sound contrite.

"But – " Moira shot a confused glance between Eamon and Teagan, who had wisely decided to remain silent and let his brother deliver the bad news – "the horde is huge. There are only so many places it could be, and we have just traversed the length of Ferelden, and we encountered no more than a few isolated pockets. If they are not in Redcliffe, where are they?"

"Your Warden companion Riordan has gone out scouting, to determine the answer to that very question," Eamon said. "He left early yesterday morning. With any luck, he should return to us later this evening and report his findings. Meanwhile, I do have good tidings for you: your ancient treaties have been honored, and your allies have all arrived, none the worse for wear. The dwarven armies number several dozen companies, and they have taken over the barracks, much to the chagrin of my guardsmen." He chuckled at his own joke. "The Dalish elves, meanwhile, have preferred to camp outside the grounds, in the woods. Odd folk, but they seem capable enough. And the Circle mages have been granted quarters in the castle itself. The rest of Ferelden's forces have established a military camp a few miles north of the village. Once Riordan returns with news of the horde, we can send out the call."

The horde was not here. After the long, brutal slog from Denerim – and somewhere along the way they'd missed the horde? Moira balanced on a knife's edge of tension as her eyes drifted across the great hall. The last time she'd seen this chamber, Connor, Eamon's magic-sensitive boy, had been in thrall to a desire demon, and had been forcing his mother and his uncle to caper about the room like court jesters for his own amusement. Now, any sign that anything untoward had ever occurred in the castle had been scrubbed away, and bright banners hung cheerfully about the walls, as though such evil could merely be papered over, hidden beneath a façade of glory.

She suddenly realized that Eamon was gazing at her in equal parts expectation and confusion, clearly awaiting an answer to a question she had not heard.

"Of course we would like something to eat, but more importantly, we need to rest," Loghain responded for her, and she thanked him for rescuing her from her own waning attention. "Not all of us were able to ride from Denerim in the comfort of stately coaches." Clearly, the limits of Loghain's civility towards Eamon had been reached, and he fixed the arl with a surly glare. "Our way has been long and difficult, and I would appreciate if we were shown to our rooms. I am certain your hospitality will be generous to a fault."

Eamon opened his mouth to retort, but Teagan smoothly interjected, his voice calm and conciliatory. "Of course. You must be thoroughly exhausted. And little of substance can be accomplished before Riordan returns to us, anyway. Follow me. I will show you to your rooms – my brother was kind enough to reserve the entire east wing of the second floor for your party." As Moira followed Teagan towards the east wing of the castle, she felt a burgeoning sense of gratitude towards Loghain, who knew how tired she was, and also how unwilling she was to admit it to herself, let alone to Eamon. She was also grateful for Teagan's calm presence as he'd skillfully soothed the tensions that had been rising between Loghain and Eamon.

Teagan opened a door to a modestly appointed yet cozily comfortable looking room, and gestured inside. "This will be your room, Moira." He gave her a kind smile, which she returned earnestly. "It is good to see you again, truly."

"And you as well, Teagan." He was noticeably cooler towards Loghain, but nevertheless entirely civil, as he indicated the room directly across the hall. She assumed the rest of her companions were likewise pleased with their accommodations, but she could not spare the energy to find out; she had no sooner stripped herself of her armor and shaken out her hair than she had collapsed, utterly spent, into the bed. She was asleep before she hit the pillow.

* * *

She was vaguely aware, through a muddled haze, of her shoulder moving, being pulled. The Fade glimmered around her, wondrous and strange, and yet she could no longer move forward as the force tugged at her shoulder again. A familiar voice, muffled and muted as though she heard it from the bottom of a well, called to her. It was asking her something, and her shoulder tugged again. Again the voice, telling her –

"Moira, wake up." Her eyes snapped open, her mind tumbling over itself in disorientation as it tried to reorder the pieces of the world that fell into place as the Fade diminished into a forgotten wisp of memory. Red walls, lush furs carpeting the floor, a rich green comforter. A shaded canopy, a well-built nightstand. She blinked. Redcliffe. The castle – her room at Eamon's castle. She had arrived in Redcliffe, Teagan had shown her to her room, and then –

Turning over, blinking the remnants of sleep out of her eyes, she came face to face with Loghain, whose ice blue eyes regarded her with a strange mix of concern and amusement.

"Yes, I'm here," she said, realizing as she said it that it was a rather silly and obvious thing to say. He gave her one of those wry half-smiles of his that she so enjoyed.

"Indeed. Though for a while there, I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to pull you out of the Fade. You were dug in like a deer tick."

She yawned, the stale feeling in her mouth evidence of her long slumber. "That's a charming analogy," she said.

"Yes, well, there's a reason I became a soldier, not a poet." He picked up her steel coat of mail, as if weighing it in his hands. Rubbing a tired hand across her eyes, she stretched slowly and curled over to the edge of the bed.

"I assume you didn't wake me up just so you could fondle my chain mail," she said, realizing at once the extremely awkward phrasing her still-half-asleep mind had conjured. She flushed hot and, in an attempt to distract him from thinking too deeply about fondling her chain mail, rose quickly from the bed, pretending to rifle through her pack.

"I can assure you, Moira, that should I wish to fondle your chain mail, I will arrange a far less contrived excuse to do so." When she flushed an even deeper red, he rewarded her with a wry, knowing smile. "However, you are indeed correct. I did not come here to examine your armor. I came to let you know that Riordan has returned, and that he has requested to meet with us at once."

Riordan – he'd returned from his scouting mission, then, and presumably had news on the whereabouts of the horde. As the last cobwebs of her restful sleep blew away, her mind focused on the details of the looming battle with a piercing clarity. Loghain had been right – she had needed that sleep badly. She already felt sharper, quicker, more refreshed. Some of her confidence that had been leached away over the long, hot, tireless days and the restive, haunted, sleepless nights began to return.

"Of course," she said briskly. She nodded to Loghain, who met her gaze briefly, but meaningfully; he could see just as well as she how necessary her long rest had been. "Just let me tidy myself up."

Loghain nodded. "Then I will wait outside Riordan's room. His is just at the end of the hall." He left as silently as he'd entered, and Moira, feeling rejuvenated for the first time in weeks, quickly stripped, pulling on a set of clean, fresh clothes from her pack. She would have preferred to take a bath, but if Riordan was waiting on them now, she did not have the time; she would have to take one later tonight. She smiled to herself, as she found a sprig of peppermint in her victuals pack and popped it into her mouth to rid herself of the foul taste of sleep – few people would see the point in bathing right before undertaking a hard, hot march, culminating in a bloody battle. But she was feeling good, and a bath would make her feel better. Who knew – maybe a hot bath would make the difference in morale between defeating the Archdemon and losing everything. Amused by her own dark joke, and in a good mood for the first time in days, she left her room and rejoined Loghain at the end of the hall.

"You look chipper," he noted wryly.

"I feel chipper. Oh, the difference a good night's sleep can make! Or, well, day's, in this case."

He snorted in amusement. "Indeed. Now let's see what this Riordan has to say."

They entered Riordan's room, and the lean Orlesian Grey Warden greeted them with a wan smile. "Ah. You made it. It is good to see you both again."

"And you as well, Riordan," she said, though she imagined Loghain did not share that sentiment overmuch. "Eamon told us that you'd gone scouting to determine the movements of the horde. I take it you found them."

"Indeed." His face was grim-set. "I am afraid the news does not bode well. It appears that the horde has made its push north after all – and it is headed straight for Denerim."

"Denerim?" Moira's jaw dropped in astonishment, the news slamming into her gut like a battering ram. Loghain's expression, to an untrained observer, appeared unchanged; but Moira knew him well enough by now to notice the tightening of his jaw, the unconscious twitch at the corner of his eye, and she knew the ill tidings affected him deeply as well.

"I'm afraid so."

"But – " Moira struggled to regain control of her spiraling disbelief and apprehension as her previous good mood melted utterly away. "We were just _in_ Denerim! How could the reports be so wrong? How could we have missed them on the way?"

"It seems that they pushed east past Redcliffe, but then swung north – that is why you did not encounter them, if you came from the southern roads. We have wasted much time with this unnecessary diversion to the west, and I fear many lives will be lost," Riordan said bitterly. "But when Eamon presented me with the reports of the increasing attacks on Redcliffe – the first such concentrated attacks outside the Korcari Wilds – I believed that they were indicative of a greater push. I was wrong."

"Eamon – that glory seeking son of a bitch." Loghain glowered, his brows knit together in a baleful expression of distaste. "He wanted to ensure that history duly recorded his part in the battle, no doubt. And now how many will pay the price for his arrogance?" Moira shot a glance over at Loghain, as if to reprimand him, to tell him that now was not the time for petty political grievances… but she could not find the words to do so. This had been a disastrous mistake, and it had cost them precious days of preparation and marching. And if the horde attacked an unprotected Denerim –

"If they are already on the march, there is no way we can catch them in time – not even if we drive our armies to the limit!" A sick feeling settled into the pit of Moira's stomach. All of those people, and with only the city guard between them and a sea of darkspawn…

"No," Riordan agreed grimly. "We will not reach Denerim before the horde does, that is a near certainty. And I am afraid the news just gets worse." Moira gritted her teeth, willing herself to remain steady – she wasn't sure how much worse this news could possible get.

She was about to find out. "I saw the Archdemon," Riordan said without further pretense. "It has finally shown itself, at the head of the horde. With it directing their purpose, the darkspawn will be much more aggressive – and much more dangerous."

"They are already dangerous enough." Loghain was as grim-faced as she'd ever seen him. "But I suppose at least that this means the battle will be decisive, either way. We will defeat the Archdemon, or die trying."

"Yes." Something about the way Riordan said that simple word set Moira on edge. He glanced from her to Loghain keenly, his expression curious and incisive, and a disquieting apprehension stole through her – she got the sense that there was something else, something he hadn't told them, and that whatever it was, it was very, very bad.

"Tell me," he said slowly. "Were you ever told the reason why the Grey Wardens are required to end a Blight?"

Moira's sense of apprehension deepened into dread. Loghain merely frowned in impatient puzzlement.

"I would assume it has something to do with that tainted blood you forced down my throat," he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

"It does," Riordan affirmed. "But… that is not the entirety of it. I had… hoped Duncan would have shared this with you, at least, Moira."

"Duncan shared nothing with me." Even she was surprised at the amount of vitriol in her voice. "I didn't even know the taint was fatal until a few months ago when Alistair let it slip over a bowl of stew. So no, you can be certain that if there is a secret Grey Warden method for ending a Blight, I know nothing of it."

"I see." Riordan sounded genuinely apologetic. "While the taint undoubtedly gives us an edge in fighting darkspawn, that is… not the primary reason we take its corruption into ourselves." A creeping cold settled over Moira, beginning in the pit of her stomach and flowing outward, like a river of ice through her veins. "The Archdemon, as you know, is the corrupted soul of an Old God – vengeful, and immortal. If the Archdemon is killed by a blow from any but a Grey Warden, its soul will simply flee its body and seek out an empty vessel. The darkspawn are soulless by nature – the Archdemon's soul, drawn to the taint, will seek out and possess the nearest darkspawn. Since the darkspawn are innumerable, this process renders the Archdemon functionally immortal. The Blight would never end."

The Archdemon's soul will seek out an empty vessel… drawn to the taint…

"You said if the Archdemon is killed by anyone _but_ a Grey Warden." Moira's voice came out as barely more than a hoarse whisper, the dread filling her, rising within her, choking her. She already knew the answer to the question she was about to ask, but she needed to hear Riordan say the words. "What happens when the Archdemon is killed by a Grey Warden?"

The look of deep regret in Riordan's eyes told her that he knew she had already figured out the answer. "The Archdemon's soul senses the taint in the Grey Warden's blood. It believes the Warden to be another darkspawn, and moves to take control of the body. But a Warden, of course, is not an empty vessel, not like a true darkspawn. When the Archdemon tries to take possession of the Warden, its soul comes into contact with the Warden's soul."

"And I take it the Warden does not survive this encounter." Loghain, too, was somber, though if the revelation of the truth of a Warden's role was affecting him as it was affecting her, he hid it well.

Riordan shook his head, and the motion carried a great, damning finality. "No. The souls cannot survive contact. To destroy the Archdemon's soul, the Grey Warden's soul too must be destroyed."

In the end, it wasn't even death. She could have handled the inevitability of death. But this –this was worse than death; it was _oblivion_. The colors bled away from her vision, leaving the room in muted shades of grey. She must have looked as stricken as she felt, because Riordan attempted to muster himself to full height and adopt an air of confidence.

"Traditionally, the senior Warden present decides whose responsibility it is to make the killing blow," he explained. "I am by far the senior Warden here, and my Calling approaches soon. I will volunteer to take the final blow." He paused, as if knowing he needed to temper his optimism. "But… if I am unable to do so, if I have fallen in battle, then one of you must do so instead. I am sorry. But it is the only way."

The only way. To save Ferelden – to save the world – one of them, in this room, would have to perform the most ultimate sacrifice that could ever be made. She felt her knees weaken, her head swoon; it was only by sheer strength of will that she remained standing. Riordan now carefully avoided her gaze; perhaps what he had seen there had been too painful.

"If it is the only way, then it shall be done. I am prepared to do what is necessary to save my home." The words, so direct in their finality, came in Loghain's rough tenor, from the voice that had engaged in heated discussion with her as they marched the length of Ferelden; that had teased her, in that wry and laconic way of his, over many a campfire; that had tenderly comforted her as she'd wept for her dead family. The thought of that voice, of the man it belonged to, being extinguished from creation –

"Thank you, Riordan, for telling us." She summoned every ounce of her resolve to prevent her voice from cracking. She would _not_ cry. Not here, not now, not in front of Riordan. Not in front of _him_.

"In peace, vigilance; in war, victory; in death, sacrifice. Now you understand the true meaning of the Grey Warden motto. Our sacrifice ensures the continued survival of the very world we love. It is not a pleasant duty, but a necessary one." Riordan sighed. "But it is one thing to know, and another to accept. Go. You should both get some rest, before we leave for Denerim."

She stood there, gazing mutely at the grey walls, bled of all color, until a gentle hand at her shoulder broke her reverie. His familiar hand, rough and big and warm, guiding her, shepherding her out of the room, until the door closed behind them, and she looked down the endless abyss of the corridor, its lushly carpeted expanse somehow ridiculous and surreal, that such luxury and beauty could exist in a world that she might soon no longer know: and then she turned, and found herself pressed up against him, his body warm and firm, his linen shirt soft and clean, and she chanced a glance up at his face and saw his blue eyes, so intently regarding her, and her shield fell away, utterly forgotten, as she buried her face in his chest and wept.


	9. A Dark Offer

_In peace, vigilance. In war, victory. In death, sacrifice._

Riordan's rueful words echoed through Moira's mind, replaying over and over until they became a twisted, dark mantra. She had never wanted to be a Grey Warden, not even for a moment. When Duncan had come to Highever, she'd dismissed his interest politely but firmly, content to allow her friend Ser Gilmore to seek out Duncan's favor. After Howe's betrayal, Duncan had extorted her conscription through a devil's bargain with her father, promising to rescue her from the charnel house that had been her family home only in exchange for her oath of fealty to the Wardens. She had protested wildly, but at last relented, if only to give her father peace of mind as he rasped his dying breath. But she had never wanted it: not then, when Duncan had dragged her kicking and screaming from her family's side; not later, when she discovered the true, gruesome nature of the Joining and witnessed Duncan's cold-blooded murder of Ser Jory; and certainly not after she learned from Alistair of her ultimate fate, to be slowly corrupted until she became one of the monsters she was to spend her entire life fighting.

And yet, now that she knew the full, terrible truth, she did not feel vindicated in her distrust of the Wardens and their secretive order, and the outrage which had filled her after each successively horrible revelation did not come. She felt only a ghostly emptiness, as if her soul had already vacated her body in preparation for the final sacrifice, leaving her hollow inside. Something like despair pressed down upon her heart, but she sensed it in a vague, abstract way; as if her mind knew that she  _should_  be feeling hopelessness and anguish, but her body had forgotten to summon up the actual emotional response. All she could feel – all she could truly sense – was Loghain, the warmth of his body surrounding her, and so it was to him she clung, her solitary connection to the world, the only thing that kept her afloat in the grey sea in which she now floundered.

His shirt was damp and cold, soaked through with her tears, as she pressed her face into his chest, unwilling to move, to confront the reality of what awaited them. She did not know how long he held her, there in the corridor outside Riordan's room, but she could feel, through her soul-grinding misery, his hand come up to tangle in her hair, slowly stroking it with a calm, gentle hand, soothing her wordlessly. The simple motion, which a few weeks ago would have been entirely unexpected from him, sparked something within her. His affection and concern for her, his steadfast support, her own tumble of confused feelings about this man who had now become more dear to her than anyone else who currently lived: all mixed together into a heady rush of sentiment, and a fresh supply of tears welled up in her eyes and poured out, soaking his shirt all over again as she clung to him and sobbed.

They stood there like that for what could have been minutes or hours, the passing of time an irrelevant concern as the walls of her life collapsed around her; but eventually, as her eyes burned raw and she exhausted her supply of tears, she took a deep, shuddering breath, and emerged from the solace of his chest. The corridor around them was unchanged; the red and gold carpets were plush and inviting and utterly out of place amidst the turmoil that had just engulfed her. And yet, as reality reordered itself in accordance with the grim and unassailable fate that awaited them, she too realized that she had to reorder her mind, to come to grips with Riordan's words, because she had no choice.

"Will you be all right?" His voice was as gentle as she'd ever heard it, and knowing that he felt such worry for her, even while facing the same grim possibility as she did, nearly broke down her dam yet again. But, now that her grief had been spent, she was rapidly coming back to herself, pulling herself together and putting the pieces back in place, just as she'd done on that awful night Duncan had dragged her out of Highever, forcing her to ride blindly into the night as her world was demolished around her. The pieces no longer fit together in exactly the same way, but she would make do, just as she had that night. For a little while longer, because she had to. Because it is what her father and mother, and Fergus, would have expected of her. Because it is what Loghain will expect of her.

But she could not lie to him; he had earned her honesty, at the very least. "No," she said, her voice hoarse and cracked after her wracking sobs. "Not yet. But I will be. I have no choice."  _I haven't had a choice since that night in Highever. Not really._

"It is a small price," Loghain said, his tone still gentle, but resolute. "One life in exchange for the end to this threat and the safety of Ferelden secured. It is a price I will gladly pay, should Riordan fail."

Once again, the thought of him, of this man who'd come to be her constant companion, being wiped away from the world brought a sharp stab of pain to her heart. "No. I will do it." The words came out before she had consciously realized they'd formed. She blinked away the vestiges of her soul-wracking despair and allowed the dire thought to take root in her mind. "I will do it," she repeated. "I am the senior Warden. If Riordan fails, it is my decision. And I will kill the Archdemon if need be."

"Moira, don't be foolish," he chided softly. "You are young. You have much to live for."

"Do I?" A tinge of the bitterness that had followed her since Highever crept back into her voice. "And what is that, pray? A life as a Grey Warden? Thirty more years of fighting darkspawn and being lonely and wishing my life had been different, before I try my best to get myself killed in battle before the corruption takes me and turns me into a monster?"

"Do not be so eager to throw your life away!" His voice, though still retaining an undercurrent of concern, now took on a harsher tone. "You have… you are worth more than that. I have lived a full life. My honor, my title, everything that I have is forfeit. I have brought so much pain to so many. Let me atone for my sins."

"Loghain…" She reached out to him without thought, grasped his hand in her own, savoring the rough warmth of his skin. "Don't think that way. You have… I will not deny that you have made many mistakes, but… you don't deserve to die."  _Not like that. Not forever._  She felt a lump of sorrow form in her throat and forced it resolutely down.

"And you do?" he rejoined quietly. He squeezed her hand, a barely perceptible pressure, and she felt her heart skip a beat. But then he released his grip, leaving her skin tingling in its absence. "Come. You need rest. We will have a hard ride ahead of us if we are to save Denerim from destruction." His reminder of the horde shamed her; in her overwhelming despondency over their fate, she had forgotten about the fates of all those who lived in the path of the horde, many of whom would die before the Wardens could even hope to reach them and put a stop to the Archdemon. The thought boosted her resolve; if she could think of what she faced as a battle to save innocents, if she could frame such a sacrifice in a way that did not remind her of what she had to lose, then perhaps she could find the strength to carry on.

She walked back with him, neither one eager to leave the other's company, until they stood just outside their rooms. She looked at him again – his eyes never once leaving hers, as if seeking silent assurance that she would indeed be all right. Her gaze wandered across him involuntarily, and she noted the dark patch of sodden dampness across his chest, and blushed.

"I'm sorry," she said. "For making such a scene. You must think me weak."

At that, he merely smiled, and – to her immense surprise – approached her and leaned in to place a gentle, chaste kiss against her hair.

"I would never think you weak," he said, his voice tender but brooking no disagreement. "Now get some rest. Good night, Moira." And with that, he entered his room and closed the door gently but firmly behind him.

Moira's head was still spinning from his entirely unexpected kiss, and she stood out in the corridor, stunned, her heart hammering in her chest, for several long moments. She reached a tentative hand up to the top of her head, where he had kissed her, as if by touching where his lips had been she could somehow scry his motives. She no longer doubted that he truly  _liked_  her – one did not kiss a woman one did not  _like_. But the kiss was not romantic – at least, not overtly. Was it the sort of kiss an older man might give to a woman he saw as a daughter figure, in an attempt to cheer her up? Or was it the kiss of a man who did not know if the woman he cared for did not share his attraction, and he did not want to disturb her? Did she – share his attraction, that is? If he was indeed attracted to her?

_Of course you do. Don't be ridiculous. You remember the way you gawped at him when he was shaving beside that stream_. And he had known she was there, and had even, it had seemed, teased her – and of course, there had been the missed moments, when it had seemed like they had almost –

_Enough!_ Moira was aware that her emotions were running high after all the turmoil of the evening, and that she was focusing on the tumult of her feelings for Loghain to distract her from the doom that awaited – but there was nothing to be done about either situation tonight. Loghain had retired to bed, and they would march out to meet the horde in the morning. She could do nothing except take her long-awaited bath and try to get some rest – and hope that she could suffocate the despair that she had just managed to stuff beneath the surface long enough to make it through to the end, whatever fate might hold in store for her. With a shuddering sigh, she pulled open the door to her room, her hand raising to her shirt to begin unlacing it –

– and found herself staring at Morrigan, who stood pensively before the fire that now roared beneath the mantle by her bed.

"Morrigan? What are you doing in my room?"

Moira must have sounded as shocked as she felt, because Morrigan turned to face her, though her trademark smirk was nowhere to be seen.

"What am I doing? I am standing here, warming myself before the fire," the apostate said, a hint of mirth reaching her strange amber eyes. "Perhaps what you should instead be asking is  _why_  I am here."

"Do not play your games with me," Moira snapped, a sense of ominous foreboding welling up within her. "I am very much not in the mood." She had never gotten along with Morrigan; the witch was secretive and sly, had little kind to say about anyone, and was never shy in expressing her disgust any time Moira went out of her way to render aid to anyone. She entirely distrusted the apostate and her even-stranger mother, a suspicion that had only grown since Morrigan had presented Moira with her mother's alleged grimoire, which had supposedly detailed Flemeth's terrible plans for Morrigan. She had believed Morrigan's distress, and sought out the Witch of the Wilds, a fight which had become far more than she'd bargained for when Flemeth had transformed into a dragon. Whatever secrets she and her "mother" harbored, Moira was inclined to believe they were nothing good.

"Always so paranoid," Morrigan chided. "'Tis no wonder you get along so well with Teyrn Loghain." A ghost of a smile flitted across the witch's face as she watched the barb hit home. "But whatever you may think of me, I am here as a favor to you. I am here because you are in danger."

"In danger." Moira regarded the witch with open skepticism. "Of course I am. We are  _all_  in danger! There is a darkspawn horde rampaging throughout the land, or hadn't you heard? So if that is all, I'd really like to take a bath and get some rest."

"It most certainly 'tis not 'all,' and I think you know exactly what I mean." Morrigan's voice held none of its usual mockery, and Moira's sense of foreboding mounted.

"I have a way out, you see," the witch continued, as she slowly paced before the fire, her amber eyes aglow in its flickering light. "A plan. The loop in your hole, so to speak."

Moira fought back her anger at the enigmatic mage, knowing that her agitation would only delight Morrigan all the more. Determined to remain calm, she took a deep, steadying breath.

"What 'plan'? What are you talking about? Speak plainly," she said in her best command voice, the ominous sense of dread taking firm root in her gut.

"Very well," the mage replied in clipped tones. Morrigan turned from the fire to face her, and there was no longer any trace of scorn or irritation in her eyes. "I know what happens when the Archdemon dies," she stated baldly and without prelude. "I know that a Grey Warden must be sacrificed. That sacrifice might be you… or it might be your Teyrn Loghain. Neither possibility, I assume, pleases you. I have come to tell you that this does not need to be."

Moira stared at Morrigan in wild, mounting disbelief. "You… what? You  _know_? How?" Her disbelief was almost immediately subsumed by an intense, rising anger. "You knew and you didn't tell me?  _Why_?"

"And what good would that have done?" Morrigan retorted. "'Twould only have caused you grief, even assuming you had believed me in the first place. 'Tis a hard thing, to face one's mortality. Harder still to face the notion of oblivion. But as I said, this does not need to be – for you or any of the Grey Wardens. I offer you a way out."

"A way out? A way out of what? Killing the Archdemon?" Moira shook her head incredulously. "If you have some magic at your disposal that can kill an Archdemon, don't you think you might have, I don't know,  _mentioned_  that before now?"

Morrigan shook her head impatiently, as if frustrated with a stupid child who was slow to learn. "There is no magic that can kill an Archdemon… at least, no magic beyond the method of which you are now aware, that which requires the sacrifice of a Grey Warden," she said. "I cannot kill the Archdemon for you. But what I can do is prevent your death when you do so."

Moira narrowed her eyes, her pervading sense of distrust growing steadily by the minute. "And how is that accomplished, pray tell?" She knew, beyond a doubt, that whatever Morrigan had to say, she would not like the answer.

"It is a ritual," the witch said simply. "Performed before the battle, in the dark of night. It is old magic, from before the time of the Circles. And it will spare your life when the time comes to kill the Archdemon."

"A ritual," Moira said flatly. "Can you be more specific?" A creeping, dark suspicion seized her. "Is this 'ritual' blood magic?"

Morrigan scoffed openly at Moira's accusation. "There are some who might call it thus. There are many ancient and powerful magics now lost to the ages because of the Chantry's simple-minded superstitions," she said cryptically, and Moira noted that the witch did not quite answer her question. "All you need to know about it is that it will save your life. I cannot imagine what possible objections you could raise in light of that rather salient detail."

"That entirely depends on the nature of this 'ritual,'" Moira retorted. "If you mean me to sacrifice an innocent in my stead – "

"Oh, do not be so  _dramatic_." Morrigan regarded her with a bemused glint in her eyes. "'Tis nothing so barbaric as that. In fact, you need do nothing at all."

"Then why are you here?" Moira's patience for the witch's equivocations was waning rapidly, and her distrust of all the secrecy surrounding the so-called 'ritual' filled her with a sense of dread. "If you can perform this 'ritual' without me, and save my life, and it does not require the blood of innocents, then why are you asking my permission? Just do it. I'll be sure thank you later. Unless, of course, there's more to it than that, which – knowing you – there naturally is."

"Are you so blinded by the Chantry's fables that you distrust me – distrust my magic – so thoroughly that you will not even listen? That you will not even allow me to save you?" Morrigan appeared, for the first time in Moira's recollection, to be truly angry. Moira frowned – the witch's motives were a complete enigma. Morrigan had never made any secret of her lack of love for Moira, and why it should now matter so much to her that she save Moira's life – when she had shown so little concern for the lives of true innocents – was utterly mystifying. The less sense it made, the more Moira's sense of premonition prickled in alarm.

"Then speak," she said. "Tell me about this 'ritual.' But first, tell me how you know of it. I did not know of the Warden's sacrifice until tonight – I admit I am very curious how an apostate swamp witch came by this knowledge."

Morrigan smiled wryly. "My knowledge comes from Flemeth, of course. Why do you think she saved you from the Tower of Ishal? Why do you think she was so eager that I join you? All has been in preparation for this moment."

"Flemeth." The name came from Moira's tongue like a curse. "The same Flemeth you bade me murder so I could steal her grimoire for you? The same mother who was grooming you like a pig for slaughter so she could steal your body and preserve her youth? And you expect me to trust  _her_?"

"You need not trust her," Morrigan snapped. "You need only trust me. And whatever malice my mother might have been planning for me, I can see no ill in this. Of that you have my word."

"Your word." Moira made no attempt to disguise her disdain. "Very well. But I will not believe that any ritual concocted by Flemeth – or you – does not have a price. I will decide if what you offer is worth whatever the price inevitably must be."

"What I offer is your life, and so I suppose only you can determine its value," Morrigan said simply. "And there is no price." She paused, and a small, mocking smile ghosted across her face. "Well. I suppose you might consider it a price… but one you, and Loghain, should be willing to pay, should you wish to ensure the survival of both you and your teyrn."

_Her_  teyrn? Did Morrigan assume…? "What does this have to do with Loghain?" Moira asked suspiciously. "Besides 'saving his life?'"

"It has everything to do with him," Morrigan said simply. "What I propose is this: I must lay with Loghain, tonight. From our joining, a child will be conceived. As the child of a Grey Warden, it will bear the taint, and when the Archdemon is destroyed, its soul will seek out the child's like a beacon. At such an early stage, the child can absorb the essence and not perish, and no Grey Warden will die in the process."

Later, Moira would not be able to say which had been worse: the simple horror of Morrigan's words, or the casual, matter-of-fact way in which she delivered them. She stared, appalled, at the swamp witch for several long moments, digesting what she had just heard.  _She wants to_ be  _with Loghain, to lay with him._ A wave of something like nausea surged through her. _To bear his child. But…_

"This child," Moira said, her voice barely above a choked whisper, "this child would become the new Archdemon? You would turn Loghain's baby into a darkspawn?"

"No." Morrigan once again frowned, as though Moira were too stupid to follow. "The child will bear the taint, but the ritual will ensure that the taint is destroyed. The Archdemon, you recall, was once one of the Old Gods. And so it shall be again: untainted, as it was before the Fall."

"And what of the child's soul?" Moira demanded.

"What child?" Morrigan laughed. "The Archdemon's destruction will occur merely days after conception – can such a thing truly be said to be a child at that stage? No 'child' will be harmed. The child that is born will be a normal, healthy baby – albeit one that carries the soul of the Old God within it."

Moira's head spun, and, against her will, an image of Morrigan and Loghain, in bed together, making love, forced itself into her brain. She shoved it out as violently as it had come, and a heady, acute anger rapidly filled her. The thought of this woman – this woman who had made no secret of her dislike of them – laying with Loghain, bearing his child…

"This is your ritual, then?" she spat, eyeing the witch with disgust. "Whoring yourself to a man you don't even like so you can conceive his child and curse it with the soul of an Archdemon?"

"Do not be such a fool!" Morrigan hissed. "Think of what I offer: a chance to avoid death! Better yet: a chance to slay the Archdemon and live, reveling in your glory!" A sudden thought seemed to occur to Morrigan. "Ah." She smirked, then, and Moira grew even more incensed. "I see. You are jealous. You should not be – the sex will mean nothing. 'Tis a means to an end, nothing more. I do not aim to take your precious Loghain from you."

"I am not jealous!" Moira knew, as soon as the words left her mouth, that they were a lie – and she could see from the knowing, infuriatingly smug look in Morrigan's eyes that the witch, too, knew they were a lie. She decided to change tack.

"This has nothing to do with how I feel," Moira proclaimed. "It is monstrous, to use him like that. Why did you even come to me? Why not to him?"

"Because you know as well as I that he would refuse me outright," Morrigan said. "I had hoped that, given the… closeness… of your relationship, that you might be able to persuade him where I never could." Morrigan's features softened just a bit, and she seemed to regard Moira with something akin to sadness. "He cares for you, where he cares nothing for me. He would never do this for me. But, for you, he might."

Moira's vision blurred as tears came unbidden to the surface. She thought of Loghain, holding her close in his strong arms, comforting her, soothing her fears. What if what Morrigan was offering were true? That this was a way to keep him safe – to keep them both safe? To make certain that he survived the awful fate Riordan had foretold? And yet…

"Do you really want to consider the possibility that Loghain will sacrifice himself to destroy the Archdemon?" Morrigan pressed. "I imagine he has already informed you that, should Riordan fail, he intends to take the final blow? Of course he has – he is a man who puts his duty above all else." Morrigan regarded her with open sympathy. "Only you can convince him that he has something to live for – that he has someone who loves him."

The blood drained from Moira's face as the world swam around her.  _Someone who loves him_. "I don't – I – no, I mean – why would you think that?"

"Come now – do you think I have not seen the way you look at him – and the way he looks at you? 'Tis plain to everyone – except, perhaps, the two of you."

"I…" And yet, even as the second denial formed, Moira could not make herself speak it. She closed her eyes, feeling a tear slip down her cheek and no longer caring enough to wipe it away. The grief she'd grappled with earlier in the evening roared back in full force, and she thought of losing him – of  _truly_  losing him, forever – and the horror of it was beyond contemplation.

_I do love him. Maker help me._

If what Morrigan offered was genuine, if this ritual prevented a Warden's sacrifice to destroy the Archdemon, then it meant she and Loghain could…well, assuming he cared about her. But what Morrigan said…  _the way he looks at you_ … could it be true? All she would have to do…

Her stomach lurched again at the thought of Morrigan seducing him, leading him into bed. Conceiving his child for the sole purpose of using it as a receptacle for the Archdemon's soul.

"And what of this child?" she said. "What am I supposed to tell Loghain?"

"You should tell him nothing," Morrigan responded, and whatever sympathetic platitudes she had to offer were now gone. "He need not even know of the child's existence. After the ritual is completed, I will depart. You – and he – will never see me again. The child will be mine, to do with as I wish. That is my one condition."

Moira stared, aghast, at Morrigan, and as the witch's words took root in her mind, she quickly began to feel a visceral disgust at how close she had come to accepting the offer. She had even believed Morrigan's proffered sympathy to be genuine – but now she saw that was not the case. Morrigan  _wanted_  to perform this ritual – Moira saw that, now – for whatever ends of her own, and they had nothing to do with saving Moira's or Loghain's life, or ensuring that they lived happily ever after in love. No, she wanted this baby – she wanted Loghain's baby –to do with as she pleased, and Maker only knew what unfathomable thing she had planned. Moira's stomach churned and her blood boiled as a white-hot anger percolated through her. How  _dare_ she – how dare Morrigan use her feelings for Loghain, manipulate and twist them into a justification for this awful ritual that would use him so cruelly and deprive him of his own child?

"Why do you want this?" Moira managed to choke the words out through a throat closed tight with anger. "What is this child to you? Because it is abundantly obvious that this has nothing to do with saving my life, or Loghain's life, and everything to do with giving you an innocent child to use as your plaything for whatever Maker-forsaken purpose your vile mother has conjured up through this  _ritual_  of hers."

Morrigan's expression cooled at once, and she regarded Moira with open scorn. "And what should it matter to you? You will be alive, and so will Loghain. Your future is yours, to do with as you wish. Is this one child such a grand price to pay that you would consign yourself – or the man you love – to eternal doom? All out of misplaced pity for a 'child' that will not exist unless I will it to be so?"

"You said that this 'ritual' would not require the sacrifice of any innocents," Moira rejoined. "That was a rather creative lie, even for you. I can imagine few things more innocent than a child."

"And there will  _be_  no sacrifice, as I have already said! But you are too blinded by your petty small-mindedness to listen!" Morrigan exclaimed. "The child will be healthy. It will be perfectly normal, in every way – save that it will carry the soul of an Old God. Such an ancient being does not deserve to be extinguished from the world if it can be saved – or do you not agree? I had thought you marginally more sophisticated than most of your simple-minded fellows. Perhaps I was entirely wrong about you."

"The Old Gods of Tevinter were hardly benevolent creatures even before they fell prey to the taint," Moira said. "That you would use an innocent child as its vessel is atrocious. That you would try to manipulate my feelings for Loghain to convince me that you must use  _his_  child is even more so."

"'Hardly benevolent?' According to whom? The Chantry?" Morrigan grated out a mirthless laugh. "My, but you are every bit as benighted as all of the rest. I'd hoped for more, but you, as with the rest of your kind, continue to disappoint." She regarded Moira now with open derision. "Will you not reconsider? Or will you consign yourself to oblivion out of obstinacy and ignorance?"

She could change her mind. She could agree to talk to Loghain now, convince him that this needed to be done – that he needed to bed this cruel, scheming witch, get her with child, and resign himself to never seeing or hearing of his baby ever again. Even as she thought it through, she knew that – if what Morrigan said was true, if he truly did love her – she could convince him. He would do it, if she begged him. She knew he would.

But could she ever live with herself – knowing at what price their freedom had been bought? Knowing that Loghain's baby had been irretrievably altered, transformed into something ancient and terrible, something that had caused so much destruction and grief? And knowing that, no matter what, he would never know his own child – that the child would be at the mercy of one of the people Moira trusted least in all the world, groomed for a fate that she could not even begin to imagine?

She could not bear to lose him; but neither could she bear to force him to undergo such unnatural cruelty for her own sake.

There was only one thing left to do.

"I will not," she said firmly. "What you propose is monstrous. I will not be party to it. I will not use Loghain to further Flemeth's sinister agenda. If Riordan fails and the sacrifice is demanded of me, then I will make it. I would rather die with honor than allow you to unleash this horror on the world in the name of your own pride and vanity."

Morrigan's eyes narrowed, and her mouth set in a fearful grimace.

"Then you are a fool," she spat. "Die, then, if you feel it so worthwhile. Or live, and lose your lover. I care not. I shall not stay to watch, either way. Enjoy your death, Warden. I hope 'tis as glorious as you hope for." Eyes burning, Morrigan gathered herself, and walked purposefully towards the door.

"So that's it?" Moira said, incredulous. "You're leaving? Just like that?"

"'Tis not I who willed it thus," the witch retorted. "You have made your choice, and you shall have to live with it. Or not, as the case may be. 'Tis no longer my concern." And in a flash of light, Morrigan no longer stood before her – in her place was a sleek grey wolf, which did not hesitate before bounding out of the door, down the corridor, and away.

Moira was left alone, her door ajar, with only the persistent crackling of the fire to keep her company. She stared numbly at the open door, dimly aware that she had taken their only chance to survive the final battle and thrown it into the flames. Perhaps Riordan would fulfill his vow and slay the Archdemon, but if he did not, then it would come down to her, or Loghain.

Which was worse: to destroy yourself, or to live knowing that the man you loved was dead and utterly gone forever?

Slowly, mechanically, she sank down to her knees, staring into the dancing flames, willing the tears to come.

But she had none left, and all that remained was a desperate ache in her heart.

_I love him_.

She could finally admit it out loud, now that she had to choose between losing him and losing everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of Morrigan's dialogue in this chapter is lifted directly from the game; what Morrigan says is the only information the player has to go on in deciding whether to accept the dark ritual, and so it seemed only fair that Moira should have the same knowledge. I think this is the last chapter in which I will need to use significant amounts of game dialogue, fortunately.
> 
> Once again, thank you all for continuing to read, review, favorite, and follow this story! Reviews are very much appreciated.


	10. An Unquenchable Flame

Moira huddled, arms wrapped around her legs, before the fire, staring into its depths. The flickering embers popped and sizzled, and she allowed herself to float away, her thoughts untethered and roaming free. She was content to sit there, mindless, entranced in the hypnotic rhythm of the flames, until a shifting log sent forth a spray of red-hot cinders, and a stray fleck of fire seared against her skin. Recoiling instinctively, she hissed in pain and backed away, raising a hand to the tender skin. With her face now turned away from the fire, the air cooled at once, and with it, her thoughts returned, unwelcome and unbidden.

The evening's revelations had come swiftly, tumbling one over the other in an avalanche of doom. The Grey Wardens' duty. Morrigan's dark bargain. Her feelings for Loghain. All had been a shock – and yet, it was the last that now held her captive. Perhaps because she sensed, on some level, that it was not truly a revelation at all, but an affirmation of that which she had known but denied to herself for some time now.

_Because it doesn't make any sense_ , she argued with herself. _How can I love him? It's only been a short time that we have traveled together, gotten to know one another. Before that, he was trying to kill me. It's absurd!_ But absurd or not, it was true, and she could no longer lie to herself. Her feelings for the taciturn teyrn had grown, blossomed, taken root; they had transformed from wary acceptance into steady friendship, and, at last, into a deep and abiding fondness. She knew, on some level, that his feelings for her had undergone the same metamorphosis, though whether they ran as deep as hers did, she could only wonder.

She thought back to the Landsmeet, back to when Alistair had begged her to execute Loghain. She'd been taken aback by her friend's insistence, and instinctively recoiled against it; at the time, she hadn't been able to say why. But now… she knew she hadn't _loved_ him then, certainly, but now she recognized that perhaps the seed of what would one day grow into her present affection for him had even then been present, somewhere inside her. Perhaps it was an appreciation for the man he'd been, all his life, before Ostagar; the Hero of River Dane, but also a man out of place, a commoner elevated to the nobility, a man who'd been born with nothing, had lost everything, and yet had managed to forge a place for himself in the cold, uncaring world. Perhaps it was a sense that, given the right pressures and conditions, she could all too easily imagine herself treading the same path he had taken, a path that had led to darker and more desperate decisions each step of the way. He'd made mistakes, it was true, many of them dreadful; but what would she have done, in his boots, faced with the same decisions? Would she have had the wisdom, the fortitude, to see Howe for what he was, despite the dark whisperings of his retinue of mages at the back of her mind, urging her thoughts along their desired path, bending her slowly, imperceptibly, to their will?

Moira sighed deeply. She knew that no one else would understand – that no one else could look at him and see the man she saw: the man whom fate had presented with a losing hand, and who had thrown in all his chips anyway, because he would be damned if he'd fold. He was a stubborn, sullen grump; distrustful and hardnosed, practical to the point of ruthlessness. And yet, he was also the man who had comforted her, encouraged her, and reassured her over the past few weeks as her stamina and sanity reached their breaking point – the man she'd grown to lean on, the man whose quiet regrets for his own mistakes did not keep him from giving her his careful, considered advice. The man she'd fallen in love with.

She ran an agitated hand through her hair, tangling her fingers through the loose auburn waves, and took a deep, shuddering breath. The air inside her room suddenly felt too hot, too stifling. She needed fresh air. Adjusting her linen shirt, she pushed open the door that Morrigan had left ajar and emerged into the corridor. Loghain's door, just across from hers, was firmly shut, and the sight of it caused Moira's heart to flutter in her chest. He was in there, just on the other side of it, quite likely asleep by now – but perhaps not. Moira had lost track of the time that had melted away while she'd sat in a trance before the fire, but it could not have been that long – it had been perhaps half an hour, at the most, since she had taken her leave of him. Since he'd planted that maddeningly chaste kiss on her hair and bid her goodnight.

She hovered, unmoving, staring mutely at his door. _And what would you say if you knocked,_ she asked herself sardonically. ' _Good evening, I just realized that I've fallen in love with you, would you let me come inside?'_ And then what?

Heat rushed to Moira's cheeks as she contemplated what exactly might happen after "then what." She recalled the morning by the stream, when she'd come upon him half-dressed and been unable to tear her eyes away. She knew she desired him – that part, at least, she'd been unable to deny for some time. But there was a difference between physical desire and what she now felt – a deep, steadfast longing, welling up from the depths of her soul, suffusing her entire body with an ethereal glow. This was stronger, more substantial – not just the passing fancy of a young woman observing a handsome man.

She swallowed past a hard lump that had suddenly formed in her throat. She had never been intimate with a man before. She'd never seen the need. Oh, she enjoyed the _idea_ of sex, certainly – she'd had plenty of youthful fantasies about some of Highever's handsomer knights, glimpsed with an admiring eye as they sweated and strove at their exercises in the keep's courtyard. But an actual dalliance had seemed another beast entirely, and one she'd never wanted to entangle herself in. She'd never been coquettish, and did not relish the idea of breaking anyone's heart – and, handsome though the knights might have been, she'd always known that they'd been far too beneath her station for her father to consider them as a marriage match. It seemed so ridiculous now – now that Highever had been reduced to a smoldering ruin, and her father reduced to ashes – but she'd always waited, hoping to meet the man who would be both a suitably handsome and earnest husband, and a suitably noble match.

But that had been before Howe, before Duncan, before the Joining, before Riordan, before Morrigan. That had been the fate for a different woman with a different life. Moira's fate was now bound up with the Blight and the Archdemon – there was nothing in her future but darkness and death. Her death, or the death of the only person who now meant anything to her in the whole of the world.

It was beyond cruel, beyond unfair; but even as the capricious injustice of it threatened to swallow her whole, she found within herself a growing determination that all hope was not _yet_ lost. Riordan might still fulfill his vow, after all; and as callous as it seemed to wish such a fate on another, Moira found herself hoping against whatever odds might present themselves that the veteran Grey Warden – an aging warrior with no family, no ties to the world, no desire beyond fulfilling his duty – might yet spare her from the terrible choice that otherwise awaited.

She needed, if nothing else, to convince Loghain that it was unnecessary for him to take the final blow himself. He had already informed her of his intention to do so, inspired by his sense of duty and his perceived need to atone for his sins – but Moira suspected that there was more to it than that. He'd seemed entirely unmoved by her insistence that she, as the senior Warden in the event of Riordan's death, would have the right to decide who made the sacrifice – he clearly did not intend for there to be a choice at all. He thought to right his wrongs, and save her life, by sacrificing his own in the process.

The thought made Moira sick – did he really think it would be _better_ for her to lose him? To face her uncertain future alone, without a soul left in the world in whom she could trust and confide? To suffer through heartbreak yet _again_? Did he think that he would be protecting her by forcing her to live without him?

Damn him and his sense of responsibility, and duty – he was not the only person of whom duty made demands! What about her duty – she was the senior Warden, damn it all, as much as she'd never wanted to be. What about her responsibility to Ferelden – which, whatever her feelings about the Grey Wardens, she would give her life to save, just as he would? But, of course, the real crux of the issue was that she – not he – had just rejected the one means, however dark, of ensuring that they both survived the battle. It had been her decision, and she should be the one to pay the price for it. Not him. Never him.

She blinked hard, clearing away the mist that threatened at the corners of her eyes, blurring the rich wood carvings on his door into an indistinct dark smudge. She needed to tell him how she felt. If this was what she meant to do – if her life was forfeit if Riordan failed – then she at least needed him to know what he meant to her. That, thanks to him, she would know, if only for a few nights, what it felt like to be dizzyingly, breathlessly in love. Maybe it was just fate's last, cruel way of making a joke at her expense; maybe it was because she knew she had such little time left in the world. But she knew, in a way that she'd never be able to articulate, that it was real, for however long it could last.

Swallowing the knot of grief and desperation that had formed in her throat, she took a deep breath, strode to his door in two steps, and delivered a solid, emphatic knock on his door.

As soon as she did, a thick, overwhelming fear gripped her – the realization that the bell could not be unrung, as it were. _Oh, Maker_. _Now I have to figure out what to say to him – except maybe he's asleep, and he won't hear me, and I can pretend this never happened and not have to actually face him and try to find the words to tell him –_

Her rambling inner monologue was silenced immediately when the door opened mere moments after her knock, and there he was, still dressed in his soft linen shirt and simple trousers from earlier.

"Moira?" He regarded her curiously. "What is – " His voice trailed off as he seemed to take in her appearance, and his brows furrowed in concern. "Is everything all right? Are you having trouble resting?"

"Oh," she managed, stupidly, taken utterly by surprise by his sudden appearance. "I, uh, thought perhaps you'd already be asleep."

He offered a rueful half-smile at that. "I can never sleep the night before a battle. My mind races and won't be still for even a moment. It would be a supreme exercise in futility to try."

"Oh, well. I didn't mean to interrupt. I just…" The words died on her tongue as she looked at him, gazing at her with a mixture of gentle concern and wry amusement. Her chest clenched tightly, threatening to burst apart under the strain of emotion, and her courage quailed. Perhaps sensing that she was still distraught over Riordan's words from earlier, he eased himself away from the door and opened it further.

"Well, there's no sense in you standing out in the hallway all night, Maker knows. If you can't rest either, then you're welcome to join me." Taking a deep, steadying breath for courage, she stepped inside his room, closing the door softly behind her.

The click of the door's latch, though soft and subtle, seemed deafening in its finality. She watched as he moved to the fireplace and picked up a poker to stoke the flames – the interplay of his muscles beneath his shirt brought a flush to her face, and she noticed, to her dismay, that her hands had begun to tremble. The implications of what she meant to say to him had finally begun to sink in.

_Maker, get hold of yourself! You are a warrior, and a grown woman, not a simpering milkmaid!_ Though she supposed it was fair to admit that, in the arts of love, she hardly had any more experience – and probably considerably less – than most milkmaids.

"I'd offer you some tea, but I'm afraid I don't have any. And I have to admit I don't much care for the idea of going to the kitchens to get any. Maker knows I'd probably run into Eamon taking his late night stroll, and short of the Archdemon, I can't imagine anyone I'd rather see less." She managed a wan smile at his bleak humor, but tea was the furthest thing from her mind.

"It's fine," she said distractedly. "I don't need tea, thank you. I just…"

_Just say it_. _Tell him how you feel_. _You're wasting time… and time is the one thing you don't have much of any more._

"Loghain, I can't let you do this," she burst. He turned away from the fire to regard her seriously.

"Can't let me do what?" he asked, placing the poker back against the mantle and turning to her with a frown. He must have read the answer in her face, because he closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

"Moira." He sounded weary and resigned. "You have to realize that, should Riordan fail, I am the obvious choice, which is as it should be. I am much older than you. You said this 'Calling' comes to mature Wardens – I cannot imagine, should I survive the Blight, that it would spare me for much longer. And you cannot deny that I am, at least in part, responsible for Ferelden's dire circumstances." He heaved a frustrated sigh. "I am… touched that you do not wish to see me come to harm, but if it comes down to you or me, then you will surely see the wisdom of allowing me to take this burden."

"No, Loghain, I do not see the wisdom!" She took another deep breath – her face still burned hot, and her hands had nervously gathered at the hem of her shirt, bunching up fistfuls of linen, to keep them from trembling. "Don't you see? Don't you see that losing you is worse to me than sacrificing myself?"

"Moira." His voice was affectionate and exasperated all at once. "I… your concern is kind. And I do not take it lightly. But…" And now he approached her, and her heart nearly stopped in her chest as he placed a gentle hand on her arm. "Do you not think that I too have no desire to allow you to perish, if I can prevent it?"

Her breath caught in her throat as she met his eyes at last, his pale blue eyes searching deep into hers. Even through the thin material of her shirt, her skin was on fire where his hand touched her, the soothing pressure of his touch threatening to overthrow her senses.

"You don't understand," she whispered, and boldly raised a hand from the hem of her shirt to rest atop his. "This was my decision. I'm the senior Warden, and you can't…" She trailed off, her eyes never leaving his. Slowly, agonizingly, she trailed her fingers across his hand, her blood throbbing with every beat of her heart as her touch ghosted across the rough skin.

"You just can't," she whispered, feeling a rogue tear slip down her cheek, unable to blink it away in time.

"Moira, I…" He hesitated, and she saw in his eyes an unspoken struggle. "I care for you, greatly. I do not think I could add to my guilt by allowing you to take on a burden that, by all rights, should be mine to carry."

"Bugger your guilt!" She reached up to grab at his shoulder with her other hand, and shook him, gently, for emphasis. "When are you going to stop carrying it around like a shield? You are a good man, and a kind man, and… I order you not to do this!"

He had enclosed his hand around hers, and her pulse raced as his fingers lightly stroked hers. Beneath the palm of her other hand, his chest was broad and warm, and she longed to touch him beneath the thin layer of his shirt, to feel his hot skin beneath her fingertips.

To her surprise, he smiled at her. "Well, now, if this is an order, then I suppose I have no choice but to obey." He broke the gaze, and looked down to their entwined hands. With a small ghost of a smile, he allowed his thumb to linger against the inside of her wrist, tracing along the delicate vein, feeling her pulse throb beneath her skin. She stared wildly at him, her body on fire with the reactions his soft, graceful touch was eliciting in her.

His acquiescence had been too easy, too sudden – and Moira did not believe it. But a greater part of her knew that she was never going to convince him – he was too dutiful, too gallant. His guilt was too great, and – she realized with a sharp pang – his feelings for her too strong. Morrigan had been right. The realization brought forth a heady rush of need, and Moira moved her hand from his shoulder to his chin, gently turning him to look at her once more.

"Loghain." She needed to say the words before the moment passed. "I –"

"Hush," he murmured. "Moira… are you certain this is wise? You have had a very difficult day. The next few will be even worse. I do not wish to be a complication." He sighed, and released her hands. "It is very late. You should go get some rest. I would not wish to distract you."

Moira stared at him, in equal measure indignant and disbelieving. "You want me to leave?"

He sighed in frustration. "I don't – Moira, it is not a good idea! _This_ is not a good idea. The last thing you need is an entanglement –"

"Who are you to decide the 'last thing I need'?" she challenged hotly. "The last thing I need is to worry about you killing yourself in some misguided attempt at atonement! What I _need_ is for you to understand how much I love you!"

There it was: the bell had been rung. For several moments, which stretched out before her like an agonizing eternity, Moira waited, hoping wildly that she had not pushed him too far, had not taken this fragile thing they had and shattered it as carelessly as a child with a teacup.

"Moira, I do not want you to do anything you might regret," he said carefully. "I am – Maker, Moira, I am an old man with nothing to offer!"

"Oh, Loghain," she shook her head sadly. "You already have what I want. And I am not leaving unless you swear to me, before the Maker, that you do not love me. If you can speak those words, honestly and to my face, then I will leave and I won't bother you again. But I do not want you to doubt that I am here because I love you, and I want you, and I don't want to die and never know what it was like to love a man." A hot tear slipped down her cheek, and she brusquely wiped it away.

He stared at her, his eyes blazing in the flickering shadow of the fire, and for a brief, terror-stricken moment, she thought that perhaps she had read him all wrong: that he did not love her, and would now send her from his room, never to speak of this again.

Instead – with a long, slow sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of him – he approached her slowly, almost reverently, until he was standing just before her.

"I am no prize, Moira," he said softly, his hand reaching up as if to take hers, but hesitating, holding back at the last moment. "And I would not drag you down to share in my shame."

"If there are any who shame you, then they are fools and I care nothing for what they think," she whispered, hope reigniting in her heart as she reached out and seized his hesitant hand in hers. "Loghain, please… I want this. I want you."

Something transformed in his ice blue eyes, then; the lingering hesitation seemed to melt away, and Moira's heart thrummed with wild desire as she saw him now regard her with undisguised passion.

"Then, if you are certain…" But even as he spoke the words, his hands had moved to rest gently, but firmly, on her hips, tugging her closer until their bodies were nearly pressed together. He leaned in, and Moira reminded herself to breathe as one of his braids brushed softly against her cheek.

"I've never been more certain of anything." She lifted her arms to entwine them around his neck, a thrill racing through her as his muscles tensed in response. She inched forward, parting her lips in anticipation until – with a jarringly odd sensation – her nose bumped against his, and she instinctively jerked back in response with a startled "oof." Loghain _laughed_ – actually laughed –and, with a swiftness of purpose that made Moira gasp, he tightened his arms around her waist, pulled her in, and kissed her soundly.

Moira had kissed men before – well, perhaps it was more accurate to say that she had kissed boys before. There had been stolen moments, during various interminable aristocratic gatherings, when she and some or other reasonably-attractive young noble buck had, feeling mischievous and naughty, snuck off to the stables. None of the experiences had ever left Moira wanting more – the lads, eager though they undoubtedly were, sadly lacked any technique commensurate with their ardor, and Moira had often found herself hastily extricating herself from the situation, sputtering some excuse or other to the crestfallen young man. She'd always been disappointed that such stolen kisses had never managed to live up to the reputation they had in romantic ballads – far from inspiring bountiful passion, they had mostly just been sloppy and wet, forcing her to desperately come up with an excuse to abandon her would-be paramour so she could wipe his saliva from her lips without his noticing.

Kissing Loghain proved to be _nothing_ like kissing an inexperienced, feckless boy behind the stables. Now, as Loghain's lips moved against hers, applying just the right amount of pressure in exactly the right places, Moira finally understood what all the fuss was about in the ballads. An ache blossomed deep within her belly, warm and tingling, as he parted his lips just enough to take in her bottom lip, his tongue flitting softly against her, as if asking for permission. Daring greatly, she opened her mouth to him, and gasped in surprise as he deepened the kiss, his tongue gently but meticulously exploring her, discovering her slowly. She could feel, more than hear, his growl of pleasure rumbling through her, seemingly coming from inside her, and in passionate response she pressed herself flush against him, dancing her tongue against his, making her own foray into the contours of his mouth, tasting him, discovering him in turn.

This time, his growl was plainly audible, and with a sudden and impatient motion, he pushed her backwards, until her back bumped roughly up against the wall. A rush of hot desire pulsed through Moira's blood, centered in her belly and spreading lower, and she pressed herself closer yet to him, feeling the firm muscles of his chest clearly through the scant layers of clothing that came between them. Moira, restless and desperate to touch him somewhere, anywhere, slid her hands up along the heated skin of his neck to tangle in his soft black hair. He snarled impatiently, huffing out a breath that was equal parts growl of desire and sigh of pleasure, and abandoned her lips abruptly. Moira's whimper of displeasure was silenced at once by the feel of his mouth against her jaw, kissing its way roughly up to take her sensitive ear between his teeth.

Moira now knew why some likened love to madness – she could not think clearly, could not see clearly, could imagine nothing or no one that could possibly matter more than him, here, right now. She was possessed of the single-minded need to touch him, to feel all of him beneath her hands and skin. Abandoning his soft hair, her hands roamed aimlessly across the broad expanses of his back and chest, and she was pleased – in the part of her brain still capable of formulating rational thought – that he felt as solid and muscular as he'd looked that day she'd lustfully stared at him by the stream. She shifted against him, pressing closer, and – with a realization that sent a throb of molten desire straight into the core of her womanhood – felt the evidence of his desire for her, pressing insistently against her belly, straining against the thin material of his trousers. With a bold impulse borne of delirious madness, she reached down and stroked her hand across his length, feeling the power and virility of his manhood beneath her palm. She shuddered in longing, her knees weak at the thought of such vigorous masculinity inside her.

With a growl of startled desire, he jerked away from her, as though shocked. She had just begun to come back into herself, and a creeping anxiety stole over her; afraid she'd done too much, too soon, and scared him away – but before any such thoughts could take hold, he pressed himself full against her again, more forcefully this time, ensuring that his manhood poked hard into her belly.

"You see what you do to me?" His voice was rough and rasping, and Moira was once again lost. With a suddenness that surprised her, he reached out and grabbed her wrist, pinning her against him. Taking her in his arms, he maneuvered them around, until she faced the wall, and then – gently, but assertively – pushed her backwards onto the bed. With a startled yelp, she landed on her back, splayed across the rumpled bed coverings. Her heart hammering wildly in her chest, she slid backwards until she reached the pillows, and sat up, her face flushed and hair tousled.

_I am in Loghain's bed. Sweet Maker, this is actually happening._

She looked up to where he stood before her, taking in all of him for the first time since they had kissed, and the change in his appearance was startling. His pale face, normally so coolly composed, was now flushed and bright, his countenance openly unguarded, making no attempt to conceal his desire. His ordinarily smooth hair was unkempt, and the braid that framed the left side of his face had come undone, the dark hair falling softly against his cheek. His clothes were rumpled and disheveled from the wandering attention of her hands, and she noted, with a pang of desire, that she could see the profile of his substantial manhood, clearly defined against the thin fabric of his trousers. He stared at her with unabashed lust, and she could tell, from the way he flexed his fingers in rhythmic distraction, that he was as lost as she was.

"Moira… if you do not want this, now is the time to say so."

His voice was hoarse and tattered, and she could see that he clung to the precipice of self-control. The ache she felt, deep in her core, had become a constant, rhythmic throb, pulsing in time with every beat of her heart. She gazed deeply at him, this handsome, rugged man – the man she desired, the man she loved, the man who so evidently desired her in turn.

She was reclining against his pillow, and realized – as she followed the path of his lustful gaze – that her linen shirt had hitched up, leaving the creamy skin of her belly exposed. He stood there, fixed and immobile, awaiting her response; with a boldness that surprised her, she sat up, pulled her shirt over her head in a smooth motion, tossed it aside, and lay back against his bed, nervous but eager, clad only in her breast band and trousers, and invited him to come to her with open arms.

His response was instantaneous. With a growl, he tore his own shirt hastily over his head, and Moira was treated once again to the delectable sight of his firmly-muscled chest. With a sudden impulse, Moira sat up, shifting to the edge of the bed, and pressed her hands to his chest, stopping him from joining her on the bed.

"Moira…"

"Hush," she whispered, ignoring the modest voice in the back of her mind that was increasingly self-conscious about her own state of undress. "I want to touch you."

She wanted him to touch her, to explore her – but first, she needed to touch him, to feel his chest beneath her hands, to run her fingers through the sparse dusting of hair and trace his scars. This she did, reverently and with deliberation, her fingers deftly following the trails of scars both old and new, mapping the contours of his robust musculature, feeling the heat of his skin. With her breath catching in her throat, she leaned in close, and placed a kiss against the hard plane of his chest, his coarse, prickly chest hair brushing against her cheeks, tickling her nerves. He was so close, and she could smell the scent of his skin, a beguiling, masculine blend of soap and leather and his own unique essence. Just beneath her breasts, she could feel the heat of his manhood, so agonizingly close, still concealed beneath the maddening barrier of his trousers. Moira was on fire – her skin burned, her pulse raced, and she did not think she could bear the urgency of her desire for much longer. With an impatient tug, she grabbed his hips in her hands and pulled him down onto the bed with her.

Her back had barely hit the bed coverings before Loghain, who had endured her teasing ministrations with rapidly-waning fortitude, took charge. With a sudden movement, he pinned her to the mattress, and Moira moaned as he pressed his full weight against her, his mouth claiming her in a frantic clash of lips and teeth and tongue. She heard his rumbling growl in her ear as his hands roamed across her body, and she arched her back in startled delight as his palms found her breasts, the sensation of his fingertips brushing against her sensitive buds sending a jolt of lightning through her nerves. No sooner had she recovered from the intensity of the sensations his fingers had produced than she felt his hands slide roughly across her sides, before he braced himself on his arms and propped himself above her. He regarded her intently through the curtain of dark hair that framed his face, his blue eyes burning with desire, and Moira felt herself blush under his scrutiny – aware, through her own raging lust, of the fullness of what she was about to do with him.

"Loghain, I…" Her voice trailed off as she thought of how she should express exactly how special this moment was. "I've never… I mean… you're…"

"Shh." It was his turn to shush her now, as he leaned down and placed a soft, impossibly tender kiss against her lips. "You have no reason to be afraid. I will be gentle."

His words banished the last of her hesitation, and with a trembling, unsteady laugh, she gratefully wrapped her arms around his neck, exploring the tautness of his muscles with her wandering hands. "I'm not afraid," she whispered, kissing him in return. "Not when I'm with you."

He smiled at her, then, and, as he leaned down to kiss her, she felt his hands moving across her chest, around her sides, until his fingers lingered at the edge of her breast strap. Her pulse quickened as she realized what he meant to do, and a sudden notion of modesty seized her at the thought of being revealed before him; but the feeling passed as quickly as it came, and, as he worked the band free and tossed it gently but carelessly to the floor, she found she had no urge to cover herself. Nevertheless, she felt her face grow hot as she observed his frank appraisal, his eyes hungrily roaming over her bare breasts with undisguised approval.

"Maker, you're beautiful." His whispered words sent a thrill through her blood; the feel of his lips against her breasts, as he leaned down and took a rosy nipple in his mouth, amplified that thrill a hundredfold. Moira gasped and arched against him – she'd never known that her body could produce such feelings of intense physical pleasure. A ragged moan escaped her throat as he paid his delicate ministrations to each sensitive breast in turn, and she threaded her fingers through his hair, holding him tight against her chest, urging him to continue with eager hands.

The pressure in her lower core had been building with every kiss, every caress; and now, Moira felt as though she would burst if she did not receive any relief. With a groan, she pressed herself close against him, a throb of desire pulsing through her as his clothed manhood came into contact with her own trousers, pressing insistently against her aching center. As though he'd read her mind, Loghain – earning a groan of disappointment from Moira – eased away from her breasts, and raised himself to his knees. His eyes never left hers as his hands strayed down to the enclosure of his trousers, and Moira's throat constricted as he nimbly untied the laces, finally revealing his considerable manhood to her avid gaze. She thought she noticed a ghost of a smile on his face as he observed her reaction, before he tugged his trousers down and off entirely, leaving him naked before her.

Maker, he was handsome – she'd thought once that he was in good shape for a man his age, but she now realized that hardly did him justice. He was in fantastic shape for a man of _any_ age – his muscular physique, strong and robust without being bulky or heavy, would be the envy of a fighting man of her own age, let alone of one with twice the years again. And this was the man who would introduce her to the art of lovemaking. Suddenly taken with an impatient, ardent frenzy, Moira reached down to her own trousers, scrabbling at the ties with fumbling fingers, trying to remove them as fast as possible. With mounting frustration, she realized that they stubbornly refused to budge – she tugged harder and more emphatically at them with an impatient growl, until she felt Loghain's hands still hers. She looked up at him wildly and was supremely riled to notice his eyes glittering with mirth.

"Here. Allow me," he murmured, an undercurrent of laughter in his rumbling tenor as he worked patiently but insistently at the tangled laces of her trousers. At last, the lacing gave way, and – with a firm and triumphant tug – he pulled them down and off, and they joined his in a discarded heap on the floor. She flushed hotly, realizing that there were now no barriers between them – physical or otherwise.

"Maker," he hummed, his hands traveling the length of her body uninterrupted by clothing. "If I am not the most fortunate man in Thedas, I do not know who is." His hands lingered as they traced a path down her belly to her thighs, and she whimpered when he deliberately avoided touching her where she most craved him.

"Patience, dear Moira," he whispered, but even as he said the words, he took pity on her, and brought one large, rough hand to rest at the juncture between her thighs, sliding a finger slowly, tantalizingly across her wet entrance. Moira choked out a breathless cry of pleasure – the sensations that had so strongly commanded her when he'd kissed her breasts now returned with an intensity that dwarfed anything that she had ever felt before. His fingers danced across her womanhood, sliding inside, finding the tiny center of her desire – each new, bold touch bringing Moira closer to the edge.

Moira had never known that _anything_ could be this wonderful; that she could experience such raw, unadulterated pleasure. She was dimly aware of Loghain's other hand, pressing against the hot flesh of her inner thigh, as he continued to plunder her sex with his teasing, searching fingers; she vaguely perceived a tension in her inner core as he slipped another finger into her depths, all the while his thumb pressed and circled against her sensitive nub. Moira was aware only of each burst of pleasure, exploding in time with every beat of her heart, and her own gasping, panting need for air; she could distantly hear the sounds of ragged, incoherent moans, and on some level, was aware that they were issuing from her own throat. Then – with a wave of intensity that was upon her before she had time to prepare – a pure flash of crystalline pleasure exploded along every nerve of her body, buffeting her over and over relentlessly, until at last receding like the tide, leaving her body trembling and quaking in its wake.

By the time she came back into herself, she noticed Loghain, propped above her on his arms, the warmth of his body lightly pressing against her. Overcome, she threw her arms around him, the rippling aftershocks of pleasure reignited by the sensation of his rigid cock poking into her belly. She was ready, now.

"Maker, Loghain, please. I want you to take me," she whispered, lifting her legs to brush against his. With a soft chuckle, he nuzzled his face into her neck.

"I intend to," he murmured, his hoarse murmur thrumming against her skin. With a soft kiss, he raised himself up again, positioning himself above her, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on hers. Moira slid her hands across his body, mapping the muscles of his back as he flexed above her, shifting his hips until she felt the tip of his cock against her entrance. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed himself into her, and with a gasp that was equal parts anticipation and apprehension, she felt her walls expanding to accommodate his length, the mild discomfort of his size offset by the reverberating pleasure of the sensations he produced as he moved in her. With a sudden, sharp pang, she realized he'd broken through what remained of her maidenhead; he seemed to have had the same realization, because he stilled himself, and placed a soft kiss against her forehead.

"Are you all right?" he asked gently, his lips resting tenderly against her skin. His hands caressed her soothingly, tracing soft patterns against her skin. She gave herself a brief moment to get used to the feel of him inside her; until, as the pain receded to be replaced by a growing, urgent need, she realized she could feel the throb of his cock within her. The sensation was electric, and the final vestiges of her virginal pain faded into the background to be replaced by a renewed sense of desire.

"I've never been better," she replied honestly, squeezing his shoulders for emphasis, and lifting her face to meet his lips with a kiss. "Now make love to me, Loghain."

He was, as she soon discovered, eager to oblige. Satisfied now that the pains of virginity no longer plagued her, he began to move, at first slowly and deliberately; but, as she gained confidence and poise, and began to match his rhythm with her own, he increased his pace, moving against her with increasingly passionate abandon. Moira matched his tempo, following his lead; and, as their bodies moved together in a sweaty, frenzied harmony, she realized that lovemaking was like a dance; all she had to do was follow Loghain's lead, respond to his cues, and the rest took care of itself. Perhaps one day… perhaps eventually… she would be bold and experienced enough to take the lead herself, and lead him on the dance.

With eager bravado, she dared to wrap her legs around his waist, urging him deeper inside of her, spurring him to take her faster. He complied at once, his groans of pleasure a sweet music in her ears; to see, to feel, the taciturn teyrn come so undone, and to know that it was her doing, was almost enough to send her over the edge a second time. She was near climax again, she knew – the feel of his manhood inside her, moving, sliding against and within her, was agonizing and sweet, and she felt herself shaking, coming apart from the inside. She needed to be as close to him as possible; she wanted to wrap herself up and push herself inside him, to merge with him until they were one body, one soul. Desperately, she clung to him, her hands scrambling for purchase on his sweat-slick back as he thrust wildly into her, trembling legs clinging for dear life against his waist, her thighs quaking and rubbery and threatening to abandon their hold. She was so close, again –

With a burst of stars against her tightly-shut eyes, the wave broke over her, again, and this time she heard her own cry of pleasure, ripping from her throat and through the room, as the wave battered her again and again. Her thighs gave out at last; her arms lost all strength; and with what waning energy she had left, she pushed herself against him, willing every inch of her skin to touch his as her release took her and echoed through every fiber in her body. She heard his rough, labored rasp as he thrust against her, hard; and as his own ragged groan filled the room, she felt his release, deep inside of her, as he too reached his climax.

When she came back to herself, she could smell the scent of their coupling in the air; the musky smell of sweat and particular aroma of sex permeated their skin and the coverings of the bed. She was boneless, exhausted, and spent – and more deliriously, giddily happy than she'd ever been in her life. She flopped over in the bed, gracelessly, to find herself scooped up readily into Loghain's waiting arms. She rolled into him, as close as she could get, resting her head against the sweat-plastered hair on his chest. She wanted to say something, to honor this moment with a passionate declaration, but as Loghain's hand slowly stroked along her shoulder, and her eyes grew heavy and sleepy as she rested against his chest, she thought, dimly, that passionate declarations could wait for another day. There would be, at least, a few more days; that she knew for certain.

Moira fell into a deep and satisfied sleep, untroubled by thoughts of the Archdemon and the Blight for the first time since Ostagar.


	11. The Calm Before the Storm

Moira awoke slowly, her eyes fluttering open as she emerged unsteadily from the Fade. She was immediately aware of how well-rested she felt, and she stretched her limbs lazily, basking in the pleasure of awakening from a deep, satisfying sleep. Her arm bumped up against a lonely, rumpled pillow, and she frowned in brief puzzlement, when a flood of memories rushed through her. The heady and joyous sensations of the night before returned in full force, and she could not suppress a spontaneous grin of pure elation. She was waking up in Loghain's bed.

A dull ache, persistent but not unpleasant, throbbed through her core, reminding her of what she had done last night – and what she had given to him. Her body flushed with a warmth that had nothing to do with the furs under which she was comfortably snuggled – and under which she did not remember snuggling. Loghain must have tucked them over her at some point in the night, after she had drifted off – a small, intimate gesture that brought a giddy grin to her face. She stretched again, more vigorously this time, and began to wonder where he was. Surely he hadn't left. He wouldn't dress and leave without even saying good morning to her, would he?

"Ah, I see you've woken up."

Any uncertainties that plagued her evaporated upon hearing his wry but warm greeting. She turned to the far side of the room, where he stood, dressed only in a pair of trousers, shirt hanging loosely from his hands.

"I was just about to go down to the kitchens. I thought it might be more relaxing to have a bit of bread and cheese here than to contend with all the squabbling in the main hall." He regarded her with an affectionate ghost of a smile. "I trust you feel well enough this morning?"

She gazed at him openly and without inhibition, drinking in the sight of his bare, muscular chest, and shivering as she recalled the heat of his touch and the warmth of his skin against hers.

"I feel wonderful." She sat up against her pillow, a remnant of her modesty compelling her to hold the furs against her body. She realized, as her eyes met his in the early morning light, that breakfast was the last thing on her mind.

"Loghain…" She trailed off, unsure exactly what to say. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she knew that, as soon as they walked out the door, the opportunities for any further intimacy would be severely limited as they marched off to battle. A distant, malicious whisper in the back of her mind reminded her what awaited them in Denerim, but she silenced the voice with an emphatic thought.

"Moira." She could tell from his tone that he'd anticipated her request, and she could also tell – with a pang – that he was preparing to disappoint her. "As much as I would prefer to spend all day sharing a bed with you, the army readies itself to march. We cannot afford any costly delays, not with the horde so far ahead of us."

"I'm not asking for all day," she rejoined, and with a boldness that surprised her, loosed her grip on the furs that she'd clutched to her chest, letting them fall into a heap on her lap. She happily noted that her actions elicited exactly the response from him she'd been hoping for: his eyes widened in shock, then rapidly darkened in lust, and he dropped his shirt from uncaring fingers as he advanced slowly towards the bed. Moira shifted restlessly against the pillow, her pulse quickening in anticipation.

"You certainly know how to convince a man, don't you?" She rose from the bed to meet him halfway, his arms crushing around her as he pulled her in for a passionate kiss. She gasped as he quickly pushed her back onto the bed, kicking aside the fur covers as he lowered her to the mattress, quickly unlacing and dispatching his trousers with one impatient hand.

"Fifteen minutes," he growled into her ear as he nipped at her sensitive lobe, his hands roaming restlessly across her naked body. Moira shuddered in pleasure, her own hands mapping the planes of his back, her legs sliding up his to assume an already-familiar position loosely wrapped around his waist.

"Fifteen minutes," she agreed, seizing his lips with her own as she felt his hardened length against her thighs.

Denerim, the horde, the Archdemon: soon it would all intrude on their blissful interlude, and she would have to face the reality of her impending doom, of _their_ impending doom, of the impulsive decision she'd made to Morrigan's proposal and the fate that inevitably awaited them. But not right now.

Not for fifteen more minutes.

* * *

When at last Moira entered the great hall – a few minutes behind Loghain, at his insistence, to 'keep the tongues from wagging' – she found her companions ready and waiting for her. Leliana greeted her with a smile and a proffered basket of bread and cheese, which Moira gratefully accepted. Loghain, she noticed, maintained a coolly professional countenance, and when she searched out and met his eyes, he responded only with a firm nod of his head.

"Moira! I hope you slept well. Our journey will be grueling, but we are almost at the end, thank the Maker!" Leliana's words were no doubt meant to be reassuring, but she could not possibly know exactly what that 'end' entailed – not for Moira or Loghain. Moira forced a smile, and tried resolutely to ignore the lump in her throat that Leliana's words evoked.

"Yes, we are. An end to things, one way or another," she finally responded. Moira could have sworn Leliana's brow creased, if only for a moment, at the cryptic nature of her words, but if the bard had thought anything amiss, she did not make any comment.

"We are all here and waiting for you," Leliana continued. "All except Morrigan. It's the oddest thing – I knocked on her door this morning when she did not arrive for breakfast, but she was not there. Why would she leave us now, on the eve of battle?"

Another spasm of grief jolted Moira at Leliana's words – not for Morrigan, but for what her absence implied. "Who can say with Morrigan?" she managed distractedly, willing herself not to dwell on what awaited her in Denerim. "She was never exactly the most trustworthy companion."

Leliana looked as though she wanted to say something more, but decided against it. In all the anguish and upheaval and passion of the previous night, Moira had utterly forgotten about Morrigan's decision to leave, and the inevitable questions her departure would raise among the other companions. She knew they would wonder at what had happened – why Morrigan, who had insisted on accompanying them all these months despite her obvious distaste for nearly every decision Moira had made, had finally decided to depart now, when her assistance would be most valuable. It was fairly plain to Moira that Leliana – who had always been far more perceptive than her innocent Chantry sister act let on – did not entirely accept Moira's professed ignorance of Morrigan's departure, but if her curiosity went deeper than mere interested speculation, she made no indication. Moira only hoped that her other companions would be as uninterested – or discreet – as Leliana.

"Sodding ancestors, are we going to stand around all day? We've got a great big ugly dragon to kill, don't we?" Moira found herself grateful – for once – for Oghren's battering-ram bluntness.

"I couldn't have said it better myself," she agreed, raising her voice to be heard across the length of the hall. "Ferelden's armies wait for us to lead them to Denerim, and victory. Let's waste no more time in ending this Blight on our land!"

Her companions raised their voice in a resounding cheer, and Moira hoped that she looked as confident and self-assured as she sounded. Her companions, who had followed her for so long, through so many trials and tribulations, all looked to her for leadership. She hoped, now more than ever, that their faith in her was not misplaced – that she would not be found wanting, and fail Ferelden in its ultimate hour of need.

She was grateful to each and every one of them: for their swords and shields in battle, for their moral support, for their willingness to slog from one end of Ferelden to the other on what was increasingly likely to be a suicide mission. But, as she surveyed the faces of her friends with warmth and appreciation, she found her gaze drawn, like a beacon, to Loghain. He met her eyes, amidst the cheering crowd, and afforded her a soft half smile. But just as quickly as she'd met his gaze, the moment was gone, his face once again arranged into an impassively cool mask.

As she rallied the crowd to assemble outside for the march, she thought of him, and what she now felt for him, and hoped that it would sustain her in the hard days ahead.

* * *

Moira found herself outside Redcliffe Castle looking upon a veritable legion. Companies of soldiers – dwarven, elven, and human – milled around the castle environs, checking and rechecking armor, packing up tents and provisions and readying themselves for the grueling march to Denerim. At best, such a massive army would take several days to reach the capital city. Moira only hoped that there remained something to save by the time they arrived.

"Don't borrow trouble, Moira. These armies are as well-trained and prepared as we can hope for." She heard Loghain's voice as he approached her from behind and took up position at her side, just close enough to send a thrill of intimacy through her blood, but not close enough to invite any stray glances from nosy onlookers.

"I know," she sighed, wishing more than anything she could reach out and take his hand. Unfortunately, he seemed rather insistent on keeping their relationship – or whatever it was that they shared – behind closed doors. "But ever since last night, I can't help but have an awful feeling about what will happen." She forced herself to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat. "Loghain, what if – "

"Moira." His voice, though not unkind, was firm and brooked no dissent. "You will drive yourself mad dwelling endlessly on all the dire possibilities. Believe me, I know. And if you do that, then you will be of no use to anyone, least of all yourself." He furrowed his brows. "You cannot allow anything to distract you from our ultimate purpose. The Archdemon _must_ be defeated, at all costs. No price is too high." He looked at her meaningfully, and she knew he was not now referring to the readiness of their armies.

"Is that what last night was? A distraction?" She met his gaze unflinchingly.

He did not look away, but his countenance remained inscrutable, even to her practiced eye. It was as though he were deliberating with himself; and Moira had begun to fear his answer when he sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging down, almost imperceptibly, as though overcome.

"No. Not to me," he said carefully, but his eyes searched hers intensely, perhaps seeking his own answer to her bold question. "It is not my custom to… 'distract' myself in that manner. I am not a casual man, Moira." He sighed again, and lifted a gauntleted hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "But regardless of what either of us feels about last night… you must remember that nothing can stand in the way of destroying the Archdemon. No emotions must cloud our judgment. A great sacrifice has been demanded of us. Perhaps it is the Maker's will that neither of us will have to pay that price, but if He bids it otherwise, then we must be prepared."

"I know that, Loghain," she said, willing her voice to remain steady. "I have done what has been asked of me ever since Highever. But I don't want to pretend that I'm not terrified of losing you. Don't ask me to pretend this doesn't matter."

Her words seemed to strike a nerve in the taciturn teyrn. He flinched, briefly, as though she'd wounded him, and opened his mouth as if to furiously protest. But, as soon as the impulse arrived, he mastered it, and closed his mouth again, pursing his lips tightly.

"I am not asking anything of the sort, Moira," he finally said. "And if I have given you the impression that I do not care, then let me assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. No one knows the depths of your courage and resolve more than me – and there is no one here who wishes to see you live more than I do." She flushed at his praise, a sudden sense of shame overwhelming her. She had never meant to doubt him – not after the passion he had shown her last night, and again this morning. "But the fact remains that we face overwhelming odds, and unlike at Ostagar, there will be no option to call a retreat and live to fight another day. We will fight, and we will most likely die." He frowned, and his eyes took on a distant cast – as if he were recalling the ghosts of battles long past. "I have come to terms with that. I do not long for death, but I am resolved to it, especially if that is what is needed to save my home. When the time comes – you must not hesitate. If Riordan is unable to perform this duty, then I will do it, and you must allow me."

"Loghain – "

"But if I have already fallen, then the responsibility will be yours. You cannot afford to spend even a single moment mourning me. You must do what needs to be done, even if you wish you had gone to the Maker instead." The muted pain in his voice, and his eyes, left no doubt that he spoke from experience – and that his hard-earned wisdom was meant for himself as much as for her.

Moira bit her tongue hard enough to draw blood; it was only by focusing on the pain that she was able to stave away the tears that threatened to fall. She wanted to embrace him; to proclaim that somehow, they would both make it through the battle alive and unscathed; to tell him how much she'd come to love him. But this was not the time for dramatic proclamations of love or weepy farewells. Loghain was right; she had an army to lead. All the people in Denerim would be helpless against the horde, and every moment she dallied could mean the difference between life or death.

She drew in a shaky breath and gave him a firm nod. "Then let us not delay any longer."

The culmination of her long, arduous journey was in sight at last. Win or lose, live or die; it would all be over in Denerim, to one end or another. Months ago, that thought would have brought her immense relief; to finally be allowed to lay down her burdens and rest, without worrying that the fate of everything she loved rested on her shoulders. Now, the thought of the end – knowing what it held – brought only a bleak, desolate sorrow, now that she could suffer the loss of the one last thing she could not bear to lose. But, until that end, he would be with her, beside her; and she knew she would draw from his strength, and his love, to sustain her for the last, brutal push.

"You will ride beside me." Her voice lost its surety at the end – her words were not so much of a demand as a request. She would never wish to compel his presence; she only wanted whatever he granted her willingly.

He gifted her with that gentle half-smile she was convinced was only ever given to her. "Of course," he said.

It would be the hardest ride of her life, but, at least, she would not ride alone.

* * *

The sounds of the army camp rang in Moira's ears as she surveyed the Fereldan soldiers gathered around one of the many fires that warded off the darkness. She stood far enough away from the fire to remain unlit by its flickering glare, and so she observed them unnoticed. She'd spent enough time around soldiers and military camps to know that soldiers guarded their leisure time ferociously. After a hard day's work, a man at arms could be counted on to indulge in as much food, drink, and general merriment as he could get away with before the dawn broke and his difficult task resumed.

She was quick to perceive, therefore, the comparatively subdued nature of the men gathered around the fire this evening. Where ordinarily such a band of soldiers would by now be well into their ale and roaring with laughter at a thrilling yarn or a bawdy tale, these men were gaunt and grim-faced, and they partook of their ale and meat not with rowdy abandon, but with stoic, almost mechanical purpose. Few words were traded; the men instead seemed intent on their own ruminations, perhaps thinking of loved ones left behind.

_They believe they are going to their deaths. And, Maker help me, they probably are._ Moira ran a troubled hand through her braided hair, the weight of her burden feeling heavier by the minute. Riding next to Loghain all day had been a comfort, but once they had made camp, she'd lost track of him; never one for idleness, he'd insisted on making the rounds of the camp, taking a survey of the army's readiness and providing what little morale boost he could (among the quarters where his presence was wanted, at least). Moira had decided that it might be a good idea to do the same, but now, she wondered at what she could possibly say to lighten the burden of men who knew they would likely never see their families again. How could she tell them to bear up under a load that nearly had her collapsing beneath its weight?

"You look troubled, child."

Wynne's voice was a welcome intrusion on her dark thoughts, and she turned to find the older woman regarding her with maternal concern. Despite Wynne's inability to mask her dislike of Loghain, Moira still valued the mage's concern – she knew Wynne truly cared for her, even if she could occasionally be a bit overbearing in that concern.

"It's just that… here I am, barely shy of my twenty-fourth year, and I'm asking nearly every fighting man and woman in Ferelden to die for me. How can I possibly be worthy of such a sacrifice?"

"You aren't." Moira frowned, taken aback by Wynne's uncharacteristic bluntness. "These soldiers do not sacrifice themselves for you, or for the Grey Wardens, or even for Queen Anora. They do so because it is the only thing that might be able to save their homes and their families. Is that not also why you fight? You fight for Ferelden, for your home. So do they."

Moira sighed heavily, casting another sad glance at the forlorn soldiers. "I just want to tell them that their sacrifice will mean something," she said quietly. "And I'm not sure I can, because what if I fail? What if they give their lives in vain because I was too weak to do what had to be done?"

"You will only fail if you allow yourself to be consumed by doubt," Wynne said. "Think of the previous Blights. Some of them lasted decades, and the darkspawn horde numbered far greater than what we face today. And yet the Grey Wardens overcame those odds. I have fought beside you, Moira. I have seen what you are capable of – and that you give yourself far too little credit."

Moira smiled weakly, grateful for the older woman's support. "It is not in battle that I fear failing," she said. "I know I can lead the army into Denerim. But the Archdemon… " She trailed off, realizing that Wynne would not understand the magnitude of the sacrifice demanded of her and Loghain. Wynne was as well-versed in history as anyone she'd ever known, but she had never given any indication that she knew precisely how a Warden was able to end a Blight.

A troubled look, equal parts concern and admonishment, passed across Wynne's face. "Moira, I hope these last minute doubts have nothing to do with Loghain," she chided. "I… well, I will not belabor my opinion of him. You know it well. But despite my counsel, you seem to have grown closer still to him. If it is he who distracts you now, then I must urge you to push all thoughts of him from your mind. You cannot afford any diversions. Your responsibility is to Ferelden, not to Loghain Mac Tir. I do not wish to see you give your life in a misguided attempt to honor the friendship you believe you share with him."

"Loghain is not a diversion!" Moira exclaimed, stared in mounting anger at Wynne. The mage could not have known how closely her words echoed the agonizing conversation Moira had shared just that morning with Loghain, nor how much anguish they caused now.

"Do you think you have been discreet?" Wynne said. "I do not know the precise nature of your relationship with him, but if it is as intimate as I suspect – " Moira blushed hotly – "then I am not surprised that you are having last-minute doubts. I advised you against trusting him at the Landsmeet, and so I advise you against it now. This is the man who was willing to throw away the life of his king to get what he wanted – do you not think that he will not similarly discard you once you have outlived your use?" Wynne reached out and grasped Moira's hands in her own. "I do not say this to anger you, but please – consider the counsel of a friend who has lived far longer and seen far more treachery than you."

Moira ripped her hands away from Wynne's, her eyes blazing in fury. "And this is how you show your friendship? By chastising me like an errant child on the eve of our doom?" She struggled to control her anger and willed her voice to remain calm – she hardly wanted the eyes of all the camp on her as she fell into a scorching row with one of her companions. That would hardly do wonders for morale.

"Moira, I worry for you!" It was true enough that Moira detected no malice or pettiness in the old woman's eyes, but that did little to abate her anger. "Loghain is a treacherous snake! It is one thing to enlist his sword against the darkspawn, and quite another to – "

"To what?" Moira cut her off heatedly. "To become friends with him? To bed him? To love him? I am not sure what nefarious plot you imagine he has in mind, Wynne, but I fail to see how any of the above could be part of some mad scheme to deliver Ferelden to the darkspawn. If Loghain wanted me dead, he'd have stuck a dagger in my back and been done with it. He cares for me, whether or not you will ever believe that. And I frankly don't give a tinker's damn if you do. I know who has stood by my side in my darkest days. Loghain has, and he will stand by me as long as he is able. I wonder whether you will do the same."

Wynne looked as though she'd been slapped in the face, her countenance shocked and crestfallen in equal measure, but Moira – still tamping down on the anger that percolated in her blood – could not muster the will to care. Turning about, she stalked away from the mage, ignoring the intensely curious looks directed at her by the men around the fire – who she fervently hoped had not overheard the entire quarrel.

Stalking through the camp, Moira struggled to regain her equilibrium. She almost immediately regretted her outburst. _Wynne might be an insufferable busybody, and she might be dead wrong about Loghain, but she_ does _mean well, in her way. And I suppose I can't truly blame her for not seeing the side of him that I do._ The spat bore witness to her fraying nerves – had she only been more in control of her emotions, she would not have lost her temper so thoroughly. Between her anxieties about the upcoming battle, the fate of Denerim, the readiness of the army, and the terrible choice that possibly awaited her and Loghain, she felt pushed to her breaking point.

_Courage, Moira_. It was something her father used to say to her, when she'd been discouraged by any setbacks as a young lass – whether in the sparring ring, on the back of a horse, or in her interminable lessons with Brother Aldous. _Courage. There's nothing my little spitfire can't do when she puts her mind to it_. A hot, searing pain welled up in her throat. His little spitfire. Rendon Howe had used those exact words – 'Bryce Cousland's little spitfire' – intending to taunt her, to drive her into madness before he killed her. Instead, she'd proven her father right, and avenged her family by driving a cold blade of steel deep into Howe's belly and twisting it until his last breath seeped from his body. Had he known her father's pet nickname, or had it just been an uncanny coincidence?

Moira had reached the edge of the camp in her haste to escape Wynne, and, standing on the periphery, she looked out over the vast landscape of tents, horses, and men, at the bright beacons where dozens of fires blazed. Every single one of these soldiers was counting on her to hold it together. Every man and woman who took up arms in the name of Ferelden needed Bryce Cousland's little spitfire to pull it together and find her courage, one last time.

_I won't let them down, Father. I swear it._

She stood there for several long moments, hot tears escaping down her cheeks, as a slow, steady sense of calm settled over her. She only had a little farther to go, and then she could rest, her duty done. She drew strength from the milling masses of soldiers, each doing his part, who gathered here in this clearing, following her into the maw of death. She drew strength from her family, her spirit reaching out to graze against the memories of her mother and father, her brother and sister-in-law and nephew, dipping into the wellspring of love they'd held for her. She drew strength from her companions, each one standing beside her and fighting with her during all her trials and journeys. But, most of all, she drew strength from Loghain, who had somehow transformed from her enemy into her dearest friend – and her lover.

Thinking of him brought a flush of warmth to her belly. The memories of the past night and morning washed over her with a wave of renewed intensity. She felt a need to see him, to touch him, be near him. Imbued with a sense of purpose, she strode back through the camp, making sure to dry her eyes before stepping back into the lights of the blazing fires.

It did not take her long to find him, still clad in his massive chevalier suit, his arms crossed imperiously as he watched over the camp like a hawk. She approached him steadily, her pulse racing at the sight of him in full armor-clad splendor. In spite of how close they'd become, he remained reticent, as evinced by his reluctance this morning to acknowledge their newfound intimacy in front of others. She knew he was a very private man – and, truthfully, she was a rather private person as well – but as the grains of her life dripped slowly but inexorably through the hourglass, measuring out her final days and hours, she knew she did not have the luxury of time.

"Ah. There you are," he said, his eyes darting over to her as she approached him from the shadows. "I've been making the rounds all evening. The soldiers' mood is grim, but resolute. They are prepared to risk everything to defend their homeland." He smiled softly at her. "You have done well. This is the grandest army Ferelden has ever raised in my lifetime, and it is you they follow. You have every reason to be proud."

She flushed, both at his words of praise and at the renewed blossoming of anticipation that spread through her blood. "Thank you," she said. "But I didn't come here to talk about the army." She reached out boldly and grasped his hand, feeling him tense through the plate metal. "I want you to come to my tent."

Loghain's normally unflappable visage wavered, and she knew she had taken him aback with her bold request. The moments dragged on in excruciating silence as he hesitated, the uncertainty in his eyes sending a creeping tremor of disquiet through her.

"Moira, there are many soldiers about," he said, his eyes flickering around the camp to ensure they remained unwatched.

"Are you ashamed of me?" She refused to release his hand – she would not believe, after everything, that she could have been so wrong about him. Wynne's words came back to her, unwanted and uninvited, and she shoved them away forcefully.

Loghain frowned in consternation, and seemed ready to respond in haste, but he cut himself off, at last closing his eyes and releasing a weary sigh.

"Never." He opened his eyes and she was startled by their intensity as he pierced her with his gaze. "But you are young and still perhaps unwise to the ways of the world. If I go to your tent now, someone will see, and it will be on everyone's tongues come tomorrow morning. Not everyone shares your good opinion of me, Moira, and there are many who would seek to sully your reputation through my dishonor. I would not have you be the object of the rumormongering of vile gossips. Not on my account."

The stubborn, foolish, noble man – of course he wasn't ashamed of her. He was trying to protect her from the pit of vipers who would no doubt look askance at her when they realized just how close she'd become to Loghain Mac Tir, the disgraced regent. Moira felt an absurd well of laughter bubble up within her – what a perfect gentleman he was, trying to spare the reputation of a woman who had mere days to live.

"Oh, Loghain," she murmured, before leaning in close to him and pressing her lips against his. She kissed him long and slow, wrapping her arms tightly around him so that he would have to push her away to break the kiss. His armor clanked as it collided with hers, and they kissed deeply, her lips moving against his in a sensual dance. She did not break the kiss until she felt her lungs crying out for air.

She pulled back and looked him in the eyes, and was delighted to see that he looked as flushed and disheveled as she felt. He goggled at her incredulously, and she laughed.

"Well, that ought to give the vile gossips something to talk about," she said. Sobering up, she regarded him with a solemn mien, reaching up to place a hand against his cheek.

"We have such little time left," she said, her eyes locked with his. "I don't want to waste a single moment. I want every second to count. To really mean something."

"Moira," he murmured, reaching up to tuck a tendril of her hair behind her ear. "I can promise you that every moment I spend with you is as worthy as any I've had in all my years of life."

She did not trust herself to respond; instead, she tugged insistently at his hand, leading him towards her tent. This time, he did not resist.

It was strange, knowing that her life would be measured in days, not years. All the dreams she'd once had – of a husband, a family – had crumbled to dust. But she still had this – she still had him. She resolutely ignored the curious eyes that followed them as they strode, hand-in-hand, into her tent. She had never removed his armor before, but was familiar enough with the clasps of her own that it proved no difficult task. The feel of his skin against hers was warm and welcome, and she found her body responding to him even more eagerly than it had the night before – something she hadn't thought was possible. His hands against her skin were rough and unyielding, and his mouth crashed against her with bruising intensity. She knew that tonight, she felt the full hurricane force of his passion, now that he knew he did not need to tenderly minister to an innocent maiden. She never would have thought, all those months ago, that the stern, grim-faced teyrn was capable of such ardor. But now, as he moved inside her with wild abandon, she relished seeing him come undone – and she relished coming unraveled with him.

Afterwards, they lay entwined together, breathless and sweat-soaked, and she curled herself into him as she'd done the night before, nestling her head against his shoulder. He tucked an arm around her and held her close, the heat and scent of his body lulling her into a sated drowsiness.

"I love you," she whispered into his neck as sleep overtook her.

Just before she drifted away, she felt a gentle pressure as his hand squeezed her shoulder.

"And I you."


	12. Let Mine Be the Last Sacrifice

Denerim was burning.

Moira's throat tightened as the gates to the capital city rose into view in the distance, backlit by an ominous glow and plumes of thick, billowing smoke. A cavalcade of emotions assaulted her: sorrow, anger, worry, shame, resolve, anxiety – and, underlying it all, a soul-deep dread at what awaited her at the end of the road, a dread she forced to the back of her mind and refused to dwell on. All of those poor people in the city, fighting for their lives, fleeing and hiding from the ravaging horde, now depended on her to do her duty. The sight of the burning city reminded her of the terrible fate that awaited her entire country should she fail now. She would not – could not – fail.

No matter the cost.

As she always did whenever her thoughts drifted unwillingly to the Grey Wardens' ultimate fate, she unconsciously sought out Loghain's presence beside her and reached for him. She still sensed a reticence in him every time she expressed her affection for him in front of others, but he never shied away, and she loved him all the more for it. She had never been one for public displays of affection (not that she'd ever had anyone for whom to display affection until she'd fallen in love with Loghain), but she'd been seized by a frantic urgency; every moment, every gesture, would have to last her for the rest of her short life, and she refused to let the wayward glances or obvious whispers of her companions or the traveling army deter her. Perhaps he knew how important it was for her to seek him out; perhaps he felt the same way. As her hand snaked out and seized his, he responded with a small squeeze, and knowing he was at her side heartened her more than she could ever say.

As they crested the final rise in the Imperial Highway, Moira spotted a contingent of soldiers mustered and waiting at a bivouac about a mile from the city gates. The royal standard fluttered above a tent set back from the road. Anora and her palace guard had ridden out to meet them. Moira gritted her teeth nervously as she rode on, releasing Loghain's hand unconsciously as they rode into sight of the royal encampment. That the queen's guards had declared it safer for her outside the protective gates of the city did not bode well for the situation inside, but perhaps Anora had just wanted to boost the morale of the marching army and rally the troops. Moira refused to consider that any of her anxiety might have something to do with whether or not the queen had heard rumors of the brazenly intimate relationship between the Grey Warden Cousland and the former Teyrn of Gwaren.

"Hail, Grey Wardens!" A stout, mustached sergeant-at-arms raised his arm to them in greeting, and she returned the salute as she and Loghain approached the edge of the bivouac.

"How fares the city?"

The soldier's face was grim. "Not well, milady. The darkspawn breached the gates two days ago, and the garrison has fallen back to reinforce the inner city. The market district, docks, and alienage have all been overrun. It is only a matter of time before the city must be abandoned altogether, I am afraid." The guard ran a gauntleted hand across his haggard, lined face. Moira did not know the man, but she gathered that he looked far older now than he had only a few short weeks ago. "Given the situation in the city, the palace guard made the decision to evacuate the royal household. If Denerim falls – " the soldier suppressed a shudder – "then at least the crown will not." The sergeant straightened to full height. "The queen has requested your presence at once. If you will follow me, Wardens."

"I see. Thank you for your report, soldier." Moira's stomach sank as she and Loghain followed the sergeant-at-arms through the maze of milling soldiers. The churning of her stomach only intensified as the sergeant led them to a large, well-apportioned tent, above which fluttered a large banner bearing the royal heraldry. Unconsciously, she shifted her posture away from Loghain and clasped her hands in front of her like a prim Chantry initiate. She heard a soft, barely-audible snort of mirth from her companion, and resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs. Let _him_ be the one to deal with any awkward questions Anora might ask, then.

"Moira, it is good to see you again." Queen Anora emerged from her tent, clad in an exquisitely-made but functional suit of light armor and looking as tired and worried as Moira had ever seen her, yet still projecting an aura of calm, collected command. Moira was immediately ashamed at the depth of her relief that it was Anora's, and not Alistair's, head that bore the crown in these troubled times. Anora inclined her head respectfully, and Moira swept into a deferential bow. She briefly mused that such courtly graces seemed absurd and grossly out of place with Denerim in flames, but old habits died hard.

"Father. I am glad to see that you are well." The queen's greeting to Loghain was perfunctory but kind, and Moira tactfully averted her eyes as Loghain reached out his hand to clasp his daughter's, feeling like an interloper in the midst of the family reunion. If Anora had any inkling that the relationship between her father and her Warden champion was anything other than professional, she gave no indication.

"I trust your household guards got you out of the city safely?" Loghain's voice was gruff, but suffused with an undercurrent of warmth and concern – a subtle intonation, but one Moira had learned to detect in her taciturn lover's voice. No doubt Anora just as easily saw through the stern facade her father projected to the rest of the world.

"Or course," the queen replied primly, before fixing her father with a look that Moira knew well, having been adept at deploying it against her own father more times than she could remember. "But I am not a helpless child, Father. Your anxiety is touching but unnecessary."

Loghain relaxed, and his dour countenance fell away, replaced by a soft, wistful smile. "Oh, Anora," he said tenderly. "You may not be a child, but you will always be my daughter. And daughters remain six years old with pigtails and skinned knees forever. Someday you will understand." Moira turned away abruptly, her throat tight and her eyes hot with unbidden tears, unwilling to interrupt such an intimate moment. In all her fretting and fussing over Anora's reaction to their relationship, she felt deeply ashamed now that she had not paused to give much thought to the worry Loghain must be feeling for his only child – even if that child was perhaps the most well-defended person in all of Ferelden. Loghain still had his daughter, and Anora her father – and Anora could protest all she liked, but Moira knew all too well that daughters never outgrew the need for their father's love. What had been so violently taken from her yet remained for the man she loved and for his only child. The final piece of Moira's resolve settled into place.

"You two should catch up," Moira said, summoning every ounce of her willpower to keep her voice from breaking. "I'm sure you have much to discuss. I should check on my fellows before we begin the final push into Denerim. Loghain, if you would join me when you are ready?" Willing her tears to remain unspilled, she nodded formally towards Anora, and caught Loghain's concerned eyes with her own, giving him what she hoped was a reassuring look before she turned on her heel and marched back through the camp, hoping that she looked more in command of her emotions than she felt.

When she reached the perimeter of the royal camp, she paused, taking the opportunity to survey her companions before she came into view. Zevran leaned casually against the supply wagon, sharpening one of his daggers on a whetstone. Oghren sat splayed on the ground, chugging from his flask and finishing it off with a resounding belch. Wynne sat cross-legged (on the opposite side of the party's camp from Oghren, Moira noted), her hands folded in her lap and eyes closed in what appeared to be prayerful contemplation. Leliana wandered alone along the perimeter of the camp, seeking peace in solitude. Dane sat curled up near the wagon, his tail wagging and muzzle twitching as he chased down his prey in his dreams.

Her friends: cantankerous, opinionated, and prickly, and yet loyal to a fault. They had followed her when no one else had; had believed in her when she hadn't believed in herself. She held a special place in her heart for Leliana, who had always known just the right thing to say when Moira's faith hung precariously by a tattered thread; and Wynne, who despite her obstinate and scolding nature had been something of a surrogate mother to Moira in her darkest hours. And, of course, for Dane, who she knew would follow her into the jaws of hell and back without hesitation. They had all held her together when she had been in danger of falling apart, and it was a debt she would never be able to repay.

No. That wasn't true. There was one thing yet she could do for them; for them, for Loghain, for Anora, and for her country. One way she could repay them all. She realized, with a start, that Loghain had been right all along. One life _was_ such a small price to pay for the safety of everything she loved. Insignificant, really, in the grand scheme of things.

Her resolve hardened, tempering into steel. Her companions milled about, oblivious of her presence. The man she loved said his farewells to his daughter; but they would not be his final farewells, at least. She could do that for him. He still had a family. She had none left. He would not be alone. And she would rather die than lose the last person she loved in all the world.

A hand on her shoulder brought her abruptly out of her trance, and she turned around with a start, expecting to see Loghain; instead, Riordan stood there, his face grim and lined with concern.

"Moira. You are well, I hope? You look as though you have seen a ghost," the senior Warden murmured to her _sotto voce_.

_I have not seen a ghost. I am a ghost._ Moira did not give voice to her thoughts. "I was just…thinking," she said, at last. Her eyes surveyed the scene before her: the bustling camp, the milling soldiers, the burning city. "This is it, isn't it? This is the end, for better or for worse."

Riordan bowed his head, his nod slow and firm in its finality. "For us, yes. We will either destroy the Archdemon here, or… the task will be left for other Wardens to finish what we could not. But they will not come in time to save Ferelden."

His words sank slowly into Moira's brain, inexorable in their malevolence and inevitability. "Then it is up to us." The words came easier than she'd imagined. "But there are only tw – three of us." Not that their numbers mattered – Moira knew, as sure she she'd ever known anything, that she was the only Warden who truly mattered, now. She did not dismiss Loghain or Riordan's abilities – not at all. But somehow, she knew that the final blow would not fall to Riordan. Perhaps because it _should_ not. He was the senior Warden, true; but he was not Fereldan. He did not love this land. He did not love its people. The sacrifice should not be his. There was only one person she knew who loved Ferelden more than she – and he was the one person she'd determined would not die today.

"We must reach the Archdemon without delay," she said briskly. Her doubts, worries, and emotions fell away. The thought of a battle energized her; the reality of her doom hardened her. She was a general now, and a general knew only her objective. Victory was everything, and worth any sacrifice she had to offer.

_I understand now, Loghain._

Riordan nodded. "I spoke to the soldiers who had most recently defended the city. The darkspawn have overrun the outer districts of the city, forming a protective barrier between our army and the Archdemon." He grimaced. "It appears the Archdemon has installed itself atop Fort Drakon, unreachable by any of the city's inner defenses. From there, it directs the assault, impervious to our forces." Riordan pulled a tattered, grimy map of Denerim from a pouch at his belt, and gestured to a nearby tent, outside of which sat a makeshift requisitions desk. He spread the map across the table, his finger stabbing at the market district and the elven alienage.

"Scouts in the city have reported that the Archdemon appears to have two generals who control the bulk of the darkspawn in the city," he said. "These generals were last seen in the market and the alienage, respectively. They have thus far resisted all efforts to rout them out, and they will pose a considerable threat to any attempt to reach the Archdemon at Fort Drakon." Riordan sighed and rubbed tiredly at his beard. "But that is not all, unfortunately. Darkspawn reinforcements from the horde arrive by the hour, and the city walls alone will not hold them off for long. If more darkspawn flood into the city, then it will be overrun entirely, and our small window of opportunity to reach the Archdemon will be lost. We must strike now."

"Then we should split our forces in two," she said at once. Riordan frowned at her, but she lifted a hand to halt his words. "Hear me out. If the gates fall, then, as you said, the darkspawn will overrun the city and all hope will be lost. But," she traced her finger across the alienage and through the gate to the market district, "if a small force can infiltrate the alienage, deal with the darkspawn general there, and then break through into the market and dispatch the other general, that will leave a clear path for that same force to assault the fortress." She looked up at her fellow Warden, her confidence bolstered by her resolve. "A small force will stand a much higher chance of passing through unnoticed until it is too late for the darkspawn to call for reinforcements. And that will leave the bulk of the army to defend the gates and buy us time." She shook her head, again interrupting Riordan before he had a chance to speak. "It is the only way."

"And what is to keep this small force from being slaughtered?" Riordan countered. "It is not a bad plan, I warrant you. But the darkspawn forces in the city are already numerous beyond count. A task force might be able to move quickly, but the darkspawn generals will be heavily defended. There is only so much a small unit can do against such numbers, no matter how valiant or able."

"We will call for reinforcements as needed," Moira countered. "I have secured the allegiance of forces from all across Ferelden. They will come to fight. If the enemy threatens to overwhelm us, I will call on their aid."

" _You_ will call on their aid?" Riordan said. "You have already decided you will lead this small band? I admire your courage, Moira, but I am the senior Warden –"

"And as such, you know more about the darkspawn than anyone," she rejoined. "Which is why you should direct the defense of the gates. Ferelden's soldiers are brave, but they are out of their element against a darkspawn army. They need you to help them manage the defense. Once the threat to the gates has passed, then you should attempt to join us – but we need Warden experience on every front if we are to maximize our chances for success." Moira thought her logic was sound, but of course she did not tell Riordan the true reason she wanted him to remain behind while she forged into the city to strike at the Archdemon. She hoped he would not see through her stratagem.

If he did, he gave no indication – whether because he did not know she planned a suicide mission, or because he had already formulated his own plan to reach the Archdemon first. "Very well," he said reluctantly. "But you should take Loghain with you, at least. You know how vital it is that a Warden be the one to confront the Archdemon. Should you fall – "

"I understand." Her response was curt, verging on brusque – she had no intentions of falling and allowing Loghain to take the final blow, but of course, she could not come out and say so to Riordan, who no doubt harbored the same intentions himself. As much as she would like to order Loghain to remain at the gates in relative safety, she knew he would never obey such an order. And, selfishly, she relished the opportunity to spend the last few hours of her life in his company.

"Very well, then," Riordan said. "It is a bold, dangerous, perhaps even stupid plan – but it is better than all the others, which isn't saying much, but there we are." He sighed. "I will rally the army to the defense of the gates. You and Loghain – and any of your companions you wish to take with you – will infiltrate the alienage and dispatch the darkspawn generals. When you have done so, signal me. I will join you at Fort Drakon and we will end this Blight once and for all."

She nodded briskly. "I will gather my companions. And, Riordan," she said, grasping at the senior Warden's arm as he turned to go, "best of luck."

He stared at her for a long beat, then nodded, grasping her arm in comradely solidarity. "And to you, Warden Moira." Then he was gone, disappearing into the morass of soldiers, no doubt locating the captain of the guard to secure his plan for the city's defense.

Moira stood there for a long time, watching him go; a soft, cowardly voice whispered in her ear that it was not too late to fetch him, to ensure that she and Loghain found a place at the rear of the battle while Riordan charged into the maw of the beast and committed the final sacrifice. But even as the voice whispered, she silenced it firmly. The plan was made; soon to be set in motion. It was fitting and right that, after everything she had given up, everything that had been taken from her by force, she do this one last thing by choice, of her own free will. It was, she reflected, an act of love. The last, best thing she could do for everything she cared for, everyone she held dear. As a child, she'd always wondered, during the lessons with Mother Mallol, why Andraste had gone so passively to her own execution; why she hadn't fought back, resisted, struck down her tormentors with the power the Maker had given her. At last, perhaps she finally understood.

"A copper for your thoughts?" A soft, intimately familiar voice murmured just behind her ear, and she turned to behold Loghain, who regarded her with kind concern. She was nearly overcome with love for him; her chest tightened and her blood burned and her throat closed shut, permitting no words to leave, and so all she could do was lean into him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He obliged her, lowering his head to rest his forehead against hers as he returned her gentle embrace.

"We have a plan to enter the city," she said, trusting herself to say nothing about her emotions. "I'm going to lead a small force to fight off the darkspawn in the city, while Riordan holds the gates. If we break through their ranks in the market, we'll have a clear path to the Archdemon."

"A sound plan," he agreed, his hands tracing a soft pattern against her armored back. He paused only slightly before continuing. "I am coming with you." His tone made clear that it was not a request.

"Of course," she said. "You are always welcome at my side."

He harrumphed softly, and a smile broke through her melancholy in spite of herself. "I should hope so," he said. She sighed and leaned into him. She'd utterly forgotten to be concerned about any watching eyes, even those of Queen Anora.

"You had a nice talk with your daughter?" she asked him, feeling a residual echo of her shameful realization that she had spared little consideration for his paternal concerns.

"Yes," he responded simply. He did not elaborate, and she did not pry. Loghain remained an exceedingly private man, and she knew him well enough now to respect that he did not believe anyone privy to his intimate thoughts besides those with whom he chose to share them – not even her.

"Good," she said. She withdrew from him reluctantly, her eyes meeting his. "Are you ready?"

He was as steadfast as she'd ever seen him, his eyes meeting hers with unwavering conviction. "I have always been ready," he said. "Let us end this."

"Yes," she agreed, holding his resolute gaze with her own. "Let us end this at last."

* * *

Fort Drakon loomed menacingly in the smoke-blackened sky, as stark and forbidding as the gates of the Black City.

Moira pulled her blade from the neck of a dead hurlock and wiped it carelessly against the darkspawn's ragged leather cuirass. The darkspawn generals were finally dead, after a long, arduous battle that had required the assistance of the dwarven legions and Dalish archers, and more than a few Circle healers. She was filthy, covered in sweat and blood and darkspawn ichor, and yet she hardly cared. She was oddly detached from everything around her, as though she were floating above herself, directing the battle as a player might move pieces on a chessboard. She felt neither elation nor despair; only a weary, aloof resignation. Leliana and Wynne had maintained a respectful distance during the lulls in the battle; they seemed aware of her need to be alone with her thoughts. Only the occasional glimpse of Loghain stirred any emotional response; he was as covered in blood and filth as she, and yet he was as strikingly handsome as any man she'd ever seen, and her heart quailed for a brief moment in her chest before the cool impassivity settled down on her like a shroud once more.

Riordan was dead. She had seen him die as she'd led her companions across the rickety bridge between the alienage and the market square, his final moments in life both extraordinarily brave and utterly foolish. As she'd suspected, he had formulated his own plan to take down the Archdemon, and as she had kept a wary eye on the Archdemon stalking the skies above the city, she'd seen a small, lonely figure leap from a nearby structure onto the dragon's back, attempting to take it by surprise and drive his blade through its skull. The Archdemon could not be bested so easily, in the end; it had thrown Riordan from its back, and he had fallen to his death on the streets of Denerim below. His sacrifice had not been fruitless, however – he'd rent the Archdemon's wing with his blade as he plummeted to his doom, and the crippled dragon, roaring in agony, had spiraled out of control to crash onto the parapets of Fort Drakon, where it raged in impotent fury, unable to take wing again. There it waited for Moira to come and meet her doom once and for all.

"It is nearly done," Loghain's voice was a welcome intrusion into her morbid thoughts. "All we need do is make our way to the top of the fortress and slay this dragon at last."

Despite herself, she managed a wry smile as she regarded the grimy face of her lover. "Is that all? Sounds like a stroll in the park."

Loghain snorted. "Has anything you've done in the past year been a stroll in the park? This is just business as usual."

"I suppose it is, at that." She forced a light tone, but the dark humor masked the brutal truth that their time together was rapidly coming to an end, one way or another. As if sharing her thoughts, Loghain sobered, a grim expression settling across his features.

"Moira." Despite his dour countenance, his voice was gentle and soft. "Riordan is gone. That means –"

"I know what it means." She had not intended her words to come out so harshly, and she placed a mollifying hand on his arm. "Loghain, I –"

"Moira." His voice was still gentle, but edged now with steel. "It is up to one of us to end it. As we have already discussed, the duty must fall to me. I am –"

"'As we have already discussed?' I recall making no such agreement!" Moira struggled to maintain her calm as she stared into Loghain's features, etched with grim resignation. "I am the senior Warden –"

"That hardly matters," he scoffed, not unkindly. "Your blood is no more tainted than mine. We are equally suited for this task – and logic dictates that it should fall to me. I am older than you, for one. I will succumb to the corruption far sooner than you. And I…" His voice trailed off, and his stern facade fell away, revealing an expression of tender vulnerability that nearly broke Moira's heart. "I have so much to atone for," he managed at last. "I have done so much wrong. So many have suffered because of things I have done. Let me do one thing right, at least. Please."

His plea shattered what remained of her heart, and unbidden tears burned hot in her eyes. It took all of her remaining resolve to will them away, and she took his hands in hers and gave them a fervent squeeze.

"Loghain, I can't lose you," she said, forcing the words past the lump that had formed in her throat. "Don't you see that? Don't you see that I can't lose you too?"

"Moira, do not be foolish!" The exasperation in his tone was belied only by the imploring look in his eyes. "You are young – you have so much to live for –"

"Do I?" _What do I have to live for? Another twenty years of serving an order I never joined willingly, alone in the world, everyone I have ever loved lying dead, waiting and watching as the taint eats away at my soul until I swallow poison to escape the fate that befalls a woman with the Blight sickness? This is the glorious future you'd sacrifice yourself to earn for me?_ Desperation and despair threatened to close in on her again, and Moira knew that if she let it take root, she would not be able to do what needed to be done. And so, without a backwards glance, she forced herself to stride ahead, leaving Loghain behind as she approached the gates of Fort Drakon.

"We have to reach the Archdemon before we can kill it," she said. "And we can't do that until we clear the rest of the fort. Come on." She did not look back, but she knew that Loghain followed close behind, silent and steadfast as always.

* * *

"Concentrate fire! We have it pinned down!"

The Archdemon bellowed in rage as it swept its viciously spiked tail across the parapets, sending a half dozen valiant Fereldan knights to their doom. The battle had been so costly already; after clearing the darkspawn-infested fortress, Moira had stood atop Fort Drakon, surveying the ruined city beneath her, and blown her war horn, summoning all of her remaining allies to the fight. There was no reason now to hold back, to spare any reserves. The battle would end here, now, or Ferelden would fall. The Archdemon knew this, too, for it summoned endless waves of reinforcements to the battle, intending to wear down the army of the Grey Wardens by attrition. Its voice echoed through Moira's skull, the sickly seductive sound of its call slithering through her mind and burning in her tainted blood. She shuddered against its assault, as insidious as any physical force the darkspawn threw against her.

Her army was valiant, bold, and well-trained; all fought with valor and skill. Still, a deep fear gripped her, as she paced the perimeter of the parapets, directing ballista fire against the maimed dragon, that their efforts would not be enough. No matter how many darkspawn they slew, still more came; pouring up the stairs of the keep, scaling the walls, an endless stream of vile monsters swarmed across the parapets, threatening to overrun their hard-won position. She knew they would not stop; they would never stop, not as long as the Archdemon lived. So far, it had not afforded her an opening to make the killing blow; clearly, it too understood the stakes in a battle with Grey Wardens.

Her Dalish archers stood as far back from the battle as they were able, peppering the rampaging darkspawn with arrows. The Legion of the Dead had joined the fray as well, relishing the chance to strike at the heart of their foe and flinging themselves against the Archdemon's haunches with suicidal abandon. Circle mages stood well-protected behind the ranks of warriors, flinging deadly gouts of arcane energy at the masses of darkspawn, managing their numbers to give the warriors a chance to whittle down the dragon's strength.

A ballista sprung into action, flinging a missile which penetrated the Archdemon's foreleg, eliciting a satisfying roar of pain. Springing down from the ballista platform, Moira launched herself into a cluster of darkspawn that had moved to intercept her. She swung her blade automatically, her sword and shield moving together of their own accord, as if she were a puppet playing out a part in a scripted pantomime. She could no longer feel her arms or legs, and she knew that it was only the blood-heat of battle that kept her upright and moving. She was as mechanical as the ballista that flung its projectiles relentlessly at her foe, and she could only hope, as her sword cleaved through another darkspawn, that she could sustain this unnatural endurance for as long as it took.

The Archdemon roared in fury as a Legionnaire, a burly, musclebound dwarven man wearing a chain shirt and plated greaves, drove his axe deep into the dragon's haunch. With a vicious kick of its hind claws, it sent the Legionnaire hurtling off the parapets to his doom, but Moira saw the victory the brave warrior had scored in his sacrifice; blood streamed from the Archdemon's injured thigh, and she knew that even for such a fierce and majestic dragon, such a relentlessly bleeding wound would quickly sap its strength. It might be the window of opportunity she was looking for.

"All units! Man the ballistae! Concentrate all fire on the dragon! Bring it down!" At her command, fire rained down on the dragon; arrows, magical blasts of ice and flame, and swords and axes chipped away at its toughened scales. The Archdemon roared in impotent fury, swiping away numbers of warriors with its claws and whipping its tail to and fro, but it was weakening rapidly, the wound in its hind leg bleeding freely. The remaining knights kept the swarming darkspawn at bay, and Moira saw it now – her chance. It was time.

She held her sword in her hand, looking at it as though through a looking glass. It had always been a strong, hearty blade, and it kept its edge now, though it was coated in blood and gore. It was not a greatsword, though; would it be enough to penetrate into the heart of the Archdemon, to kill it once at for all? She spied a silverite greatsword, laying on the ground next to its former wielder, a fallen knight wearing the livery of Gwaren. One of Loghain's men. It would be fitting that she should use one of his blades to end the Archdemon's life. If only a Cousland blade had been to hand – but there were no more Couslands, and no more Cousland blades. She was the last, and her line would end – but what a glorious end it would be! At least her family name would never be forgotten.

She had moved to pick up the sword when a hand restrained her arm; she turned, impatiently, and her heart skipped when she saw Loghain's face, covered in sweat and grime, looking tenderly at her.

"It is time, Moira," he said softly. She heard the Archdemon roaring in agony behind her, and knew it was only a matter of time before the reinforcements it had no doubt summoned arrived. She had to act now.

"Loghain," she whispered, tugging off her gauntlet and throwing it to the ground. She wanted to touch him, truly touch him, one last time. He too knew that it was the last time; and he leaned into her hand, his face resting in her palm, and as he closed his eyes, a pained expression etched itself into his face.

"I wish that things could have been different," she whispered desperately, her thumb stroking his cheek with trembling care. "I wish we could have had more time together."

He too tugged off a gauntlet, and reached up his bare hand to rest atop hers, his fingers dancing across her callused knuckles. He opened his eyes, and this time she could not hold back her tears as he looked at her with unabashed passion.

"I wasted so much of my life in bitterness and anger," he said, his voice subdued with a quiet serenity. "You had every reason to hate me, every reason to put me to death. It is what I would have done if I had beaten you that day. And yet, despite everything I have done to you, you still found something in me worthy. I will never forget what you have done for me, Moira. I will carry it in my heart forever."

His image dimmed, became cloudy; Moira blinked the hot, blurry tears from her eyes, and they spilled down her cheeks in a burning river. He had finally accepted that she would be the one to deliver the blow, then. It was unexpected, but her heart lightened; at least she did not have to try to convince him again.

"I love you, Loghain Mac Tir," she said simply. There was nothing else to say. "Thank you for showing me what love feels like." She leaned in, and their lips met; it was tender and slow, lingering softly for an interminable moment, neither unwilling to accept the devastating finality that parting would bring.

At last, he drew back, and he placed his hands on her shoulders. "Goodbye, Moira." And then, with a final, firm kiss to her forehead, he released her, drew his blade, and began to move, with gathering determination, towards the maimed Archdemon.

"NO!" Moira bellowed. _No no no no no!_ A wave of panic and terror seized her and set her body to trembling, and she reached down, scooped up the greatsword that lay at her feet, and sprinted towards Loghain and the Archdemon.

Loghain hefted his blade as he approached the dragon, a steely look of determination on his face as he picked up speed. He bellowed a great war cry, and she imagined him from years ago, a young rebel, leading Ferelden to victory and liberation at the River Dane all those years ago. _No._

Loghain raised his blade high in the air, and he moved with the strength and speed of a young man as he vaulted towards the Archdemon –

– and went flying as the Archdemon, far from out of the fight, raised its spiked tail and lashed out, connecting hard with Loghain's chest and sending him sprawling back, tumbling head over heel like a flung rag doll.

Moira screamed, watching in horror as Loghain's body slumped motionlessly against the stones. Without conscious thought, she ran to him, falling hard to her knees as she approached his unmoving form. She dropped the greatsword, feeling for the quiver of pulse against his throat. A deep, satisfying sigh of relief escaped her as she felt a weak but steady throb beneath her fingers.

"Is he alive?" Moira turned to see Wynne behind her. The mage was as grimy and battle-worn as the rest of them, and Moira was surprised to hear a trace of concern in the old mage's voice for her onetime nemesis.

"He lives," Moira said, her voice weak and weary. Loghain groaned in pain, and Wynne kneeled at his side, her hands glowing faintly as she assessed his injuries with her magic.

"He has several broken ribs, and he'll be black and blue for quite a while, but there is no permanent damage," she said. "I can bolster him with a healing spell and get him back on his feet." Loghain's eyes fluttered open, and a look of alarm passed over his features as he realized where he was.

"Yes, woman, do it now," he grated, reaching for his sword, his eyes widening in fear as he saw Moira standing before him. Wynne gave him a cross look, and raised her hands to begin the spell – but Moira reached out and placed a staying hand on Wynne's arm.

"Moira?"

"Not now," she said. She looked at Loghain, who struggled in vain to rise to his feet. "I'm sorry, my love. I have to do this."

"No, damn it!" He rasped, his eyes frantically flickering from Moira to Wynne. "Damn you, mage, heal me! Do it now!"

"Moira?" Wynne's voice was laced with worry, but Moira only had eyes for Loghain.

"Goodbye, my love." She reached down, picked up the greatsword, and spared one last glance for Loghain, whose eyes were wide with alarm as he rolled over to his side, endeavoring to rise to his feet.

"Moira, no, don't be a fool, damn it! No!"

But she was already moving towards the dragon. It wailed and frothed in agony, bleeding from a hundred wounds, and seemed to have used up a great deal of its remaining energy defending itself from Loghain's strike. It was time.

She lifted the greatsword high above her head, bolstered by a power far beyond her mortal strength, and stalked towards the injured Archdemon, at first slowly, and then with gathering resolve. All of the death, all of the destruction, all of the pain and sorrow – all the fault of this vile, evil beast. It ended now.

The dragon flailed in its torment, roaring and spitting and howling out its powerless rage at the world, and Moira stabbed the greatsword into the dragon's mighty maw, provoking a wrathful, pain-filled bellow, and it flung its head in agonized distress. Moira jerked the sword free and grabbed hold of the dragon's rocky scales, slinging the sword across her back as she mounted the wounded beast. She clung to its spines as it twitched and convulsed, trying in vain to shake her from its hide as it had done with Riordan – but its strength was greatly sapped, and it did not have the energy, now, to avoid its fate. Standing on the demon's great, wicked head, Moira felt a pervasive, soul-deep peace fill her, flowing through her like a gentle river. She thought of her mother and her father, of their love, their kind smiling faces. She thought of her brother, always with a mischievous grin on his face, and of his sweet-natured wife and curious, bright-eyed son. She thought of all the people from Highever, all of the people who had raised her, trained her, loved her. She thought of Dane, her loyal dog, who had not understood why his mistress had not allowed him to follow her into the gates of hell, and who she had sternly instructed her companions to find a good home for, though he would no doubt spend the rest of his life wondering where his mistress had gone. She thought of all her friends, of Leliana and Wynne, of Zevran and Oghren, and even of Alistair and Morrigan, who had abandoned her for their own reasons ere the end. But most of all, she thought of Loghain. She hoped he would forgive her someday.

With a shuddering cry, she brought the sword down with all of her might. It pierced the Archdemon's skull, cleaving through flesh and bone and brain, and the Archdemon howled out in its death throes, an otherworldly wail of doom, as its soul was ripped from its body. A bright flash of light cracked through the sky, and Moira saw only blinding, endless white. She wondered briefly if this was what the Golden City was like – and then she saw nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, this is the most evil cliffhanger ever! But as I've already written and posted Chapter 13 over on ff, I'll migrate it over here in a couple of days, so you won't have to wait as long. Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed - your support means so much!


	13. In Darkness Enveloped

Loghain Mac Tir was not a man who accepted defeat easily. His steadfast resolve – which some insisted was actually 'cussed stubbornness' or 'bullheaded obstinacy,' and only then if they regarded him with anything resembling fondness – had served him well in the past, regardless of whether it had won him any admirers. He cared little to nothing for the obsequious preening of the court vipers, at any rate – let them despise him, if they wished. He got things done, which was more than the wretched lot of them could say. When circumstances grew dire, and other men quailed with fear, he had always been able to rely on his tenacity to see things through, no matter the cost.

Until now. Now, when he'd most needed to draw on it, more than he'd ever needed it in his life, his strength had failed him. That alone did not concern him – if he had been the one to pay the price for his weakness, he could have abided that. He had always believed that men should suffer the consequences of their failures, and he was prepared to accept his with stoic resignation; just as he had been at the Landsmeet. But no, it was not he who now lay motionless on the parapets of Fort Drakon – and knowing what his failure had cost was nearly enough to do what the Orlesians, the vicious backbiting nobles, and the darkspawn had never been able to.

His body burned and throbbed with interminable agony. Once again he again cursed his weakness as he stumbled forward, his legs trembling with frailty like a feeble old man's, unable to bear his weight and sending him stumbling forward as he fell heavily to his knees, head swooning and breathing labored. He heard the mage rush to his side, and he swiped her away with an agitated hand. He had to get to Moira. He had to see her – had to see for himself what his failure had wrought.

"Loghain, you're hurt –" A hand tugged at his shoulder, trying to still his progress, and he shook it away, the effort producing a spell of faintness that nearly sent him to the stones again.

"Damn it, woman, let me be!" The old biddy had never cared for him before; why did she have to start now? None of them understood. He pushed himself forward, half-crawling, half-stumbling, his vision dimmed with sweat and fatigue, his nose filled with the stench of blood and smoke and death. He pulled and dragged himself onward towards the great vile monster that lay broken against the bloody stones, its menace ended forever. It should have been a triumphant moment, suffused with the heady exhilaration of victory; but Loghain felt only hollow despair, a still, disbelieving emptiness.

His last sight of her had been both magnificent and terrible. He'd watched with mounting horror as she had scaled the crippled dragon, her sword raised high into the air, the very avatar of an avenging shield-maiden. He'd opened his mouth to cry out to her, to beg her to stop – Maker damn her, it was _his sacrifice_ to make, not hers! But then she'd brought down the sword, and his eyes were blinded by a radiant beam of pure white light, seeming to come from the heart of the beast itself. When his sight returned, he saw nothing but the dragon's lifeless corpse, its skull impaled by a well-wrought greatsword. Of Moira, he saw nothing.

"Moira!"

Her name came out as a dull croak, his throat cracked and dry from thirst and exhaustion. He stumbled forward, heedless of his own staggering disorientation, until he reached the massive dragon. Its head lay against the stones, its neck bent at an unnatural angle and its terrifying maw twisted in a ghoulish rictus of death, Moira's sword protruding triumphantly from the back of its skull. Dimly in the distance Loghain heard a low, rumbling roar arise from the city below, but he dismissed it as irrelevant – whatever the noise was, it was not the harsh, guttural cries of attacking darkspawn and therefore merited no concern. He had only one concern now. As he pushed past the hideously grinning skull, his heart caught in his chest as he saw a figure, laying sprawled and motionless several yards away, the once-gleaming armor scored and bloodied. A fetid breeze blew across the parapets, bearing on it the stench of the dead, and in its wake fluttered a soft tendril of dark, red-brown hair, lifted from the head of the still form below.

"Moira!" Loghain pushed forward, ignoring the pain that lanced through his side with every step, bringing the sheer force of his will to bear against his flagging strength and forcing his body to stave off its grievous injuries as he made his way to her still form. He collapsed heavily to his knees, his weary muscles giving in at last now that their task was done, and reached out for her, heedless of the remaining soldiers who no doubt watched him with prying eyes. Let them watch, damn them all. This was _his_ duty and none would take it from him.

"Moira." He exhaled her name softly as he lifted her slowly from the cold, blood-stained stones. Her armor was battered and broken, but her face was peaceful in repose, content and serene as though she were merely enjoying an afternoon slumber. She was so painfully innocent, even in death – perhaps especially in death – and his iron resolve threatened to fail him for the first time in his life.

"Damn you, woman," he swore softly at her as he cradled her in his arms. He squeezed his eyes shut tight against the stinging smoke – at least, that was what he told himself caused the burning and blurring in his field of vision. The rumbling din from the city below reached his ears again, and he dimly recognized it as the roaring cheers of a triumphant army, celebrating their victory. No – celebrating _her_ victory. Her sacrifice. A hot knife of anger sliced through his gut, and he pulled her closer to his chest. What right had they to cheer and carry on when she was laying in his arms dead and broken?

The anger galvanized him, as it always had. He would not leave her here to be left, forgotten, while lesser warriors feasted and toasted to a victory they did not win. Drawing a ragged breath, he clutched her tight and prepared to rise to his feet, ignoring the lancing pain in his side and the blackness at the edges of his vision that threatened to close in on him.

"Oh – Moira, no." The voice, Loghain recognized with dim irritation, belonged to the old mage harridan. Couldn't she even let him alone to do this one last thing? He heard the whimpering of the Orlesian bard and gritted his teeth, channeling his simmering resentment into strength as he struggled to his feet.

"Get out of the way!" he grated. He refused to allow them to see his grief – refused it even to himself. He needed to get her out of here, get her off the castle roof and away from the prying, vulgar eyes of all these circling vultures.

"Sweet Maker!" Wynne's gasp of surprise cut through his single-minded effort. "She's alive!"

Loghain, entirely focused on lifting Moira up from her resting place atop the stones, took a moment to process the mage's words. Hazily they penetrated his fading consciousness, where they lodged stubbornly in his uncomprehending mind. What game was the old woman playing? He knew what happened when a Warden slew an Archdemon. _He knew._ Wynne, for all her blustering adulation of the Grey Wardens, hadn't the faintest of clues.

"Don't be a fool!" he rasped, willing himself not to swoon as the blackness closed in around him, his waning awareness weighing heavily against his incredulity. "She is not alive. She _cannot be alive_. It is time for you to accept the inevitable!" He refused to look at Moira's face, refused to allow himself even the faintest half-glimmer of hope that Wynne offered. He knew, from bitter experience, that false hope was far crueler than despair.

"Damn you, Loghain, listen to me! _Moira is alive._ " Something in the mage's voice caught him, pierced through the cloud of exhaustion and desolation that shrouded him. His mind hovered on the outside edges of consciousness and, daring greatly, knowing what it would cost him if he were wrong, he leaned back on his heels and took a long, considered look into Moira's face.

Her serene expression had not changed, and a sickening sense of betrayal lanced through him. Why had he believed the silly old woman and purchased her false hope? A choking sob ripped involuntarily from his throat, and he clamped down on a primal scream. He would not lose control, not now, not yet…

And then he felt it, under the skin of her neck, warm against his palm where he cradled her close. Faint, barely perceptible, but undeniably there. A soft, rhythmic throbbing, keeping pace with the beat of his own heart. Somehow, despite what Riordan had told them, despite what they had believed, despite the despair that had threatened to overwhelm him as he'd cradled her motionless body – somehow, her heart beat on. The mage was right. She was alive.

"Moira?" he whispered, hardly daring to hope. His head swooned and he sank to his knees, lowering her reverently to the ground, unwilling to risk dropping her. "How can it be?"

Darkness closed around the edges of his vision, but he refused to move, refused to avert his eyes from her peaceful visage. It was fitting that, after a lifetime of refusing to lower his guard and put his trust in anyone, that he had finally chosen to trust in her – and somehow, against all the odds, hope was not lost. It was the last conscious thought he had before the void claimed him.

* * *

A murmuring susurration surrounded him, a soft white hum of vague and formless noise. It lapped up against his emerging consciousness like waves against the shore, but his eyes were leaden and would not open. Slowly, the sounds coalesced and took shape, and his muddled brain began to grasp at snatches of words, floating airily above him like wisps of clouds.

" – need to awaken him soon, Your Majesty. He can tell us exactly what went on up there, and perhaps shed some light on her condition –"

" – absolutely will not! We have already spoken with the Circle mage and the Chantry sister, and they have related the entirety of the events that transpired on the parapets. He is injured and needs his rest –"

" – respect your concern for your father, but – "

" – the mage confirmed that she is alive, and I cannot fathom what he could tell us about her condition that a Circle healer could not –"

" – perhaps some Grey Warden magic, who knows? That is why we need _him_ , Your Majesty, with all due respect –"

He struggled to open his eyes, and succeeded only in fluttering them open for a brief moment before they clamped shut again, unwilling to acquiesce to consciousness just yet. As his body slowly adjusted to awakening, he became aware of an acute, lancing pain in his side, stabbing him every time he drew a breath. He opened his mouth to groan, but all that came out was a hoarse rasp.

"It seems he is awakening anyway, Your Majesty. We shall soon see what he has to say."

"He is badly wounded, Eamon! What he needs is time to heal, not to be subjected to an interrogation a mere day after surviving a brutal and grueling battle!"

"I respect your concern for your father, Your Majesty –"

"Do you? That is the third time you've said as much, and yet you still insist on hovering over him like a carrion bird."

"I meant no disrespect –"

At last, Loghain forced his eyes open, and, after slowly blinking the cobwebs of sleep from his eyes, found himself looking upon his daughter, who looked as drawn and exhausted as he felt, and Arl Eamon, who regarded Anora with an expression which to Loghain looked suspiciously like patronizing condescension disguised as concern.

"If you do not mean to disrespect your queen, Eamon, then perhaps you should do as she says," he croaked. Both Eamon and Anora snapped their gazes to him in surprise – Anora's in delight, and Eamon's looking rather more like a boy who'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"I – I meant no – it is good to see that you are awake at last, Loghain," Eamon stammered in response. It was good that Loghain was too weak to laugh at the arl's blatant lie – he knew good and well that Eamon had wanted him dead at the Landsmeet, and his continued survival must chafe at the scheming old bastard. But now was not the time to engage in pettiness, if only for Anora's – and Moira's – sakes.

"Father," Anora exclaimed, and leaned across the bed in which he rested to give him a gentle hug. The spontaneous genuineness of her reaction was in stark contrast to Eamon's studied deception, and his heart filled with affection as he gingerly returned her embrace. Moving his arm resulted in a sharp stab of agony through his injured side, and he withdrew from her with a hiss of pain. Anora's face creased in concern.

"Be careful, Father. The Circle mage healed you as much as she could, but she was weary and could not fully repair the damage. I'm afraid you're still in no shape to be moving around much."

He grimaced, lowering a hand to his tender side, where he felt a thick wrapping of pressure bandages encircling his torso. "What's the damage?" he grunted.

"Five broken ribs, and a collapsed lung. Wynne was able to repair your lung, but she only had enough energy to partially heal your broken bones. She ordered bed rest for you for at least two weeks."

"Two weeks? Nonsense." He attempted to shift himself up further in bed, wincing at the pain that pierced his side with every movement. "I'll be on my feet in a few days. I've endured worse than this." A sudden memory flashed through his mind – Moira, still and quiet in his arms, Wynne's frantic words, and his sudden, waning consciousness, fading into blackness –

"Moira," he said suddenly, ignoring the pain in his wounded ribs as he sat upright. "Where is she? I don't remember anything after the roof." He looked frantically at Anora, desperate for answers. "She is alive?"

"Yes," Eamon interrupted, and Loghain's brows creased together in consternation at the arl's unsolicited interruption. "She lives, though it is not clear if she will awaken, or precisely what her condition is at the moment. We were hoping you could shed more light on that. If there is some strange Warden magic at work, I believe we all need to know what it might be."

"Eamon, please!" Anora shot a warning glare at the arl as Loghain's brows creased deeper into a forbidding scowl.

"Thank the Maker that she is alive," he said tightly. "Though her survival does not seem to concern you overmuch, Arl Eamon. Such little care you show for your erstwhile allies once they are no longer of use to your schemes. A lesson my daughter has wisely heeded, I hope."

"Your tone is uncalled for, Loghain," Eamon replied, his conciliatory facade marred by a tension in his voice that Loghain duly noted. "I am merely concerned about the potential ramifications of the destruction of the Archdemon, and whether there is any cause for concern. I care about my country – your problem has always been that you believe no one cares for Ferelden as much as you do."

"Then you are a fool," Loghain said, his voice taking a dangerous edge. "I know full well that there are many who care for Ferelden as much as I do. My daughter, for one. Moira Cousland, for another, whose fate only concerns you insofar as you can use her to play your political games. This is not Orlais, Eamon, much as you might wish it otherwise."

"Your insinuations are entirely out of bounds –"

"Enough!" Anora's voice, hard enough to cut glass, instantly silenced both men. "The Archdemon has been slain, and Ferelden can finally begin to put itself back together. I will not see it torn apart again so soon." Her gaze turned to Eamon, whom she regarded with a dispassionate air. "My father is recovering from terrible wounds that he sustained in the battle to save our country. Now is not the time or place for any petty bickering. Perhaps it would be best if you left us for now."

Chastened, Eamon dipped his head in an approximation of a courtly bow. "Of course, Your Majesty. I meant no disrespect." It took all of Loghain's willpower not to bark in laughter as the arl retreated, as gracefully as he could manage, from the room. When the door closed behind him, he at last unleashed a snort of disdain.

"Who invited that viper into my sickroom? Surely he hasn't insinuated himself into your good graces. I raised you to have more sense than that."

Anora gave Loghain a daughterly look of supreme exasperation. "Oh, for the Maker's sake, Father, you needn't worry that I'm going to allow myself to be outmaneuvered by Eamon. But it never hurts to keep up appearances. Right now, with the nobility in shambles after the Blight and the civil war, I am hardly in a position to be making enemies. Eamon has been acting as an unofficial advisor to the crown since the Landsmeet, and while I do not entirely trust his motives, I cannot deny that I have appreciated his aid."

Loghain grunted, still chafed by the arrogant presumption of the pompous arl. Did he think that because he'd styled himself as Moira's ally that he was entitled to thrust his nose into every aspect of her business? His gut clenched with sudden emotion as he thought of Moira, and the avalanche of sentiment that had been subsumed by his failing physical strength now threatened to overwhelm him. He turned to regard Anora with a determined glint in his eyes, stubbornly ignoring the pain that twinged through his body at his movement.

"Moira is definitely alive, then?" He knew he had not successfully kept the eagerness from his voice, but at the moment, he cared little.

"She is alive, but she is unresponsive. None of the mages can figure out what is happening to her. Her physical wounds have been healed, but she remains perfectly at rest, and unable to wake up. The healers have no idea what ails her, nor if she will recover."

_Alive, but unresponsive_. The prognosis Anora had delivered was both confusing and dire, but his mind seized on that one word – alive – and held it in his heart like a treasured jewel. "I must see her," he said, gripped by a sudden need to get moving, to go to her at once. "Help me – take me to where she is resting. I have to see her." He struggled to raise himself out of bed, but an excruciating spasm of agony ripped through his body, and he collapsed against the pillows with a pained grunt.

"Father, please be still. You are in no condition to be flouncing about," Anora chided. She regarded him sternly for a moment, then – upon meeting his unrelenting gaze as he struggled, more slowly this time, to rise from the bed – she sighed.

"Oh, very well, I will take you there, but only because I can tell that you'll just end up hurting yourself worse if I leave you be," she said, her frustration belied by an undercurrent of amusement. Holding out her hand, she helped him rise gingerly from the bed. Loghain's head swooned as he finally regained his feet, and he stood still for a long moment, regaining his equilibrium. Just when Anora seemed ready to order him back to bed, he shook his head determinedly at her, and began, slowly and uncertainly, to move towards the door.

"I don't think so. You're getting an escort this time, ser," Anora said, and Loghain turned to her with a smile at the playfulness in her tone. He took a moment to look at her – his beautiful, strong daughter. A lump caught in his throat as he thought of how she had overcome so much in her life already – the pain of being caught between two worlds, never entirely accepted as either a noble or a commoner, the heartbreak of Cailan's failings as a husband, the constant scheming of the nobility – and he was filled with a loving and paternal pride. His pride turned quickly to shame as he recalled the insanity of the days after Ostagar, and the long, painful months before the Landsmeet, when he had put her in such danger with his reckless actions. His recollection of that time was shrouded in shadow, as though he looked at the memories through a glass darkly. It all seemed so mad now, the things he'd done and said – what had started out with good intentions had so quickly spiraled out of hand, until it seemed that every decision he made was the wrong one, both tactically and morally. What had happened – how had he let it come to all of that?

"Papa?" He looked at her with startled amazement – how long had it been since she'd last called him that? "You're gathering wool. I asked you a question."

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear. I was…" He trailed off, unsure of whether he should express his thoughts to her. Theirs had never been a relationship marked by loquaciousness – he loved her, and he knew she… well, that she looked up to him, and cared for him, at any rate, but neither of them had been particularly prone to spontaneous demonstrations of affection. Perhaps, he reflected, that should change.

"Anora, I'm so sorry," he murmured, gathering her into his arms and resting his chin on her head. "Everything I did – I put you in danger, threatened your reign, nearly got you killed at the hands of that madman Howe. I never should have given him an inch –"

"Father," she said, returning his embrace for a moment before pushing back to look him in the eyes. He was surprised to see unguarded emotion glistening in her eyes, though she stoically held back any tears. "I am the one who should apologize to you. I denounced you in front of the entire Landsmeet. I could have… if Moira hadn't done what she did… I could have gotten you killed. Alistair – I didn't realize how much he wanted you dead. I never should have gambled with your life. I'm sorry, Papa." She pulled herself closer to him again, burying her face in his chest, unwilling to let him see any moisture that gathered in her eyes.

He held her close, resting his cheek against the top of her hair, his hand stroking her back soothingly. "Hush, my girl," he whispered, and faintly, he heard the sound of soft sniffles against his chest as she hid her tears from him. "You have nothing to apologize for. I was… I don't understand now exactly when it all went wrong, but it's as though I went mad, somewhere along the way. You were right to stop me. Even if Moira had killed me, it would have been the best thing for Ferelden. I was… not myself. I can only hope now to begin to atone for the wrong I have done."

She sniffled loudly, then pulled back to regard him. Loghain was both surprised and somewhat amused to note that there was little evidence she'd been crying. He supposed she'd had long practice at concealing her emotions. "You've already done so much," she said. "No one will ever forget your part in ending the Blight. I'll make certain of it."

The mention of the Blight brought memories of Moira crashing to the fore of his mind, and the lump in his throat reasserted itself as he thought of her, living but apparently still unconscious, wounded by who knew what foul darkspawn magic.

"Moira is the one everyone should remember," he said. "She is the one who destroyed the Archdemon. She is the one who saved us all." _Who saved me from myself_ , he thought.

Anora seemed to sense his thoughts, and gathered her arm around his waist as she helped him stagger towards the door. "She is not dead, Father. I will make certain that she receives her due glory whenever she recovers." As they approached the door, she paused, forcing him to pause as well, and he turned to regard her curiously.

"Father…" He could tell, from her hesitant tone, what she was about to ask, and his stomach clenched in nervous warning. Before the battle in Denerim, when he'd spoken to her in the royal tent, the subject of Moira – of his relationship with her – had not come up. He'd been so certain he would die, and she had been so worried that she would lose him, that any gossip about his personal life had seemed impossibly irrelevant. But now that he – and Moira – had apparently both survived, and the immediate threat was over, he realized with dread that his reprieve had likely ended.

"Before we go any further, there is something I must know," Anora began carefully, and Loghain gritted his teeth against his anxiety. Maker's breath, why was _he_ anxious? He was a grown man, and she was _his_ daughter! He had no need to explain himself like he was an errant lad who'd been caught with the milkmaid!

"You and Moira… is there something there? Something more than… friendship?"

He sighed. Perhaps she was just being polite, but perhaps she truly didn't know. He thought, for a moment, about deflecting, but another thought of Moira – of her innocent, trusting love for him – filled him with shame at the consideration. Heaving a defeated sigh, he ran a hand through his hair and faced her.

"Yes," he said simply. He debated elaborating, but every time he attempted to conceive of the words, he thought of Moira's sweetness and passion, and he found he couldn't articulate the feelings she aroused in him – and so he didn't.

Whether Anora was surprised or not, she gave no indication either way. "I see," she replied simply. She put her arm around him again and guided him towards the door. "I hope then, for both your sakes, that she recovers."

"So do I," he said quietly, as she led him out of the door and into the corridor.

The royal palace in Denerim was modestly opulent, as oxymoronic that might sound, but Loghain had found it a true enough descriptor nonetheless. He quickly identified their location in the personal wing of the palace, where the monarch's family lived privately away from the prying eyes of courtiers and guests, and he found himself filled with an oddly overwhelming gratitude that Anora had opened up her own personal quarters to Moira for her recovery. He had not really expected less, but nevertheless, it heartened him to know that she was being taken care of. They made their way down the corridor until Anora paused before a doorway.

"She is in here," she said. Pulling away from Loghain, she regarded him with gentle concern. "I think you should have the chance to see her alone. I have duties to attend to, in any case." She leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "Be well, Father. I will see you tomorrow."

"Of course," he replied. "Anora – thank you."

She gave him a soft smile before retreating down the corridor, leaving him alone, standing before Moira's door. Gathering himself with a determined sigh, he pushed the door open and entered.

Her room was dimly lit, a lamp burning low in the corner near her bed and the window curtains pulled tightly closed. He made his way to the windows and threw open the curtains, releasing a bright stream of sunlight into the room. He made his way back to the bed where Moira lay in perfect repose, her dark auburn hair pillowed out beneath her and her eyes closed peacefully. Dragging a chair from the corner of the room to the side of the bed, he sat down, and reached out a hand to trace across the contours of her face, feeling the unbidden moisture dampen his eyes as he regarded her unmoving form. She was alive, that was certain; her body was warm, but not fevered, and she took even, measured breaths, as though she were merely in a deep sleep. If she'd had any wounds, they had since been healed – perhaps the mage had fully healed Moira, to the extent of her abilities. He would have to take the time to thank her later. Whatever his disagreements with the old woman, he was grateful for the kindness she'd shown Moira.

"Moira," he whispered, shaking her shoulder softly. "I know you're there. Time to wake up. It's over. You've done it, and Maker help me, but you're still alive." His hand rested on her cheek, and he rubbed his thumb across her jaw softly. "I'm still quite angry at you, you understand. I told you I'd be the one to make the sacrifice. You should have let me. I had so much to atone for – it should be me laying here in this bed, not you." He sighed, and his hand dropped down to take her hand in his. It was soft and warm, and he could not shake the notion that she was merely sleeping. Well, what had Anora said – it had only been a day? She was probably still just recovering from her wounds. She would wake up in the next day or two, and then he would let her have it for her foolish self-sacrifice. After he took her in his arms, of course.

She would be fine, he told himself. Only a few days, and she would awaken. She would be fine. She had to be. She could not survive the unsurvivable only to languish forever in a cruel un-death. She would be fine because she had to be. He would not have it otherwise.

Reassuring himself with the sureness of his thoughts, he fell into a pained, fatigued rest, his hand still loosely gripping hers.

* * *

A bright light, painful in its intensity, assaulted her eyes, and she quickly pressed them closed again. She was consumed by the oddest sensation – it was as though she were floating, suspended gently in mid-air, and yet she felt no panic or alarm. Daring to crack her eyes open a slit, she cringed as the radiance blinded her again, but stubbornly refused to close them again, forcing herself to acclimate to the light. She felt no pain, no aches or wounds; chancing a glance down, she noted that she was dressed in a simple outfit, a tunic and trousers, and she was perfectly clean, as though she'd just emerged from the bath.

_Am I dead? Is this… am I with the Maker?_ Opening her eyes further, she looked around. She realized she was not, in fact, levitating in mid-air: she was laying on a comfortably pillowed bed, surrounded by soft, fluffy blankets. She was in a luxuriously outfitted room, clearly in a castle somewhere. Blinking her eyes, she looked about in confusion. Was the Maker's throne a palace? That seemed… odd, and somewhat inappropriate. She'd rather expected heaven to be a bit more spectacular than a palace.

"You're awake! Thank the Maker!"

The sound of his voice broke her out of her reverie, and she looked, in disbelief and wonder, to her side, where Loghain sat calmly, smiling at her. An overwhelming sense of joy filled her breast – he was alive! – and she flung herself into his arms.

He laughed, truly laughed, and the deep baritone rumble was as pure as any music to her ears. He embraced her close, and placed a soft kiss against her forehead.

"I thought we'd lost you," he murmured, brushing her hair back from her forehead. "Maker, I love you."

"Loghain," she choked, pressing her face into his neck and clinging to him. "I thought… I thought I'd be dead," she confessed. "I couldn't bear to lose you, and I had to take the blow myself. Please forgive me. I didn't think… I didn't think I'd still be here."

"Already forgiven," he said softly, pulling away from her just far enough to look into her eyes. "You have nothing to apologize for, my love. You're here, and nothing else matters."

"I don't understand," she said. "I thought… was Riordan wrong, then? Don't misunderstand me, I'm happy he was wrong! But it seems like that's an awfully major thing to be wrong about." She knew she should just be happy she was alive, and here with Loghain, her love. Yet something niggled at the back of her mind. The pieces weren't adding up.

"Does it matter? So he was wrong! Maker, Moira, the last Blight was hundreds of years ago. Do you think the Wardens really remember what happened? It's all legend now, anyway. A Warden sacrificed himself to end that Blight and somehow it became enshrined in the tale that sacrifice was the _only_ way to end a Blight. Stuff and nonsense, clearly." He took her hands in both of his, and placed a soft kiss against her knuckle.

"But… the Archdemon is truly dead, isn't it? I didn't just… _think_ I killed it?"

He laughed and shook his head, and her growing sense of disbelief niggled again. "Of course it's dead! Dead as dead can be. And we are alive. Really, Moira, what else matters? Come, there's nothing between us now. We can live the life we've been waiting for."

Moira furrowed her brows, and the intensity of her elation began to falter. "What do you mean, nothing else matters? Whether or not the Archdemon is dead certainly matters. I'm glad you're so happy to see me, but… you've never been one to let your feelings get in the way of your duty. How is Denerim? What happened after I took the blow?"

He laughed again, and Moira's suspicions pricked into alert. Something was seriously wrong.

"Oh, it's all fine, I'm sure. Everything is fine. There's nothing for you to worry about – nothing for us to worry about. Come, Moira. Be with me. We're finally free to live our own life, away from the Wardens, away from the squabbling nobles, away from it all! Aren't you happy?"

She drew away from him, her heart racing as she regarded his sweetly smiling features with a growing fear. "Who are you?" she demanded. "What are you? Because you are not Loghain Mac Tir."

He remained smiling, and the hackles on the back of Moira's neck prickled in alarm. "I know you're exhausted. I understand. Perhaps it's making you imagine things –"

"I'm not 'imagining' anything," she grated coldly. "Loghain Mac Tir would _never_ shirk his duty. He would never laugh and carry on about how 'nothing else matters' while his country lies in ruins. He would never ignore or dismiss my concerns about the battle. And frankly, I'm sure he's quite irritated with me for taking 'his' sacrifice. You – whoever you are – haven't even batted a cross eyelash at me. So I'll say it again: who, or what, are you? Because you are _not_ Loghain."

The smile fell away from his face as abruptly and suddenly as it had come, and a cold fear gripped Moira as Loghain regarded her with a sudden, piercing glare, as if she were being turned inside out and measured, only to be found wanting. She scooted back in the bed, glancing around frantically for a weapon and finding nothing. What was happening – where was she?

"Clever girl," the thing wearing Loghain's face said, and this time, its smile was entirely without warmth. "I was hoping I could keep you going a bit longer. I wanted to know more about you, and I judged that you would be willing to confide in me if I assumed this form." It gestured, with Loghain's hands, towards Loghain's face, and a feeling of revulsion filled her.

"Stop it," she said, willing herself not to panic. "What are you? Where am I? What have you done with Loghain?"

"Done with him? Nothing, of course. He isn't here." The entity leaned back in the chair, its spell of malice seemingly passed, and now it affected a bored demeanor, as if weary of Moira's tedious questions. "However, this form was the one most prominent in your memories, and so it's the one I used. A mistake, in retrospect. I should have realized that you'd be more likely to spot any discrepancies in behavior from a familiar face." The thing stretched lazily, like a housecat in the sun, and Moira felt her heart begin to hammer in her chest. Was she in the Fade? Was this a demon? Was this what happened to a Warden's soul after she killed the Archdemon?

"What are you?" she repeated more firmly. "Where am I? Tell me, damn you!"

"So feisty!" The thing clucked at her, and she found herself hating it for stealing Loghain's face and voice to torment her, for violating her precious memories of him to construct this grotesque caricature. "But I suppose it doesn't do any good to taunt you further. It's losing its novelty. You're fairly boring." The thing leaned back in its chair, and regarded her with a disinterested shrug. "So, the answers to your questions: I am – well, I was – Urthemiel, or at least, I am part of him. I am… diminished, it seems. Your doing, I suppose?" He sighed, and Moira stared in horror at the thing – the enemy – that still bore Loghain's face.

"As to where we are: I am not entirely sure, to be honest with you. The Fade, perhaps? Your mind? Your mind inside the Fade? I don't know. I know I was on a castle, in your little city, when you destroyed me. After that, I woke up here. Or at least, this part of me did."

_No. No no no no no._ Moira was filled with a cold, soul-deep dread as she stared at the thing – Urthemiel. The Archdemon. "No," she repeated out loud. "No. No. I killed you. I put that blade in your skull. You're dead. You're dead. This isn't real."

He sighed, and for the first time, she noted a trace of dismay in his features. "I don't know what happened any more than you do," he said. "I know that I was a tainted dragon, and now I'm here. I don't have a body – not anymore. That's why I borrowed your friend's face here. I hope you don't mind." He smiled wolfishly, and Moira was consumed by revulsion.

"I do mind, actually," she said hotly. "Do – whatever you did to take on his form. Change into something else – someone else. I don't care what, but stop using my memories of him! You have no right! You have no –"

"Oh, fine, my goodness, no need to get into a tiff about it." At once, the thing's face shifted, and changed – and Moira's stomach plunged further as her mother regarded her with a placid expression.

"No! Not her either! Someone else – not my family!"

"Oh, well, you just keep changing the rules, don't you?" The face shifted again, and now Alistair regarded her with a huffy look of irritation on his face. It was sick and twisted, but she supposed that, if she had to endure speaking to the _Archdemon,_ of all cursed hells, that Alistair's face would be as good as any.

"I suppose this face will have to do," it said, regarding her with a curious gleam. "I just want you to be comfortable. It seems that we're stuck here together, after all."

"Stuck here? Why are you here at all? You should be _dead_!" The last word came out as a bellow, and Moira's patience finally snapped, as she picked up a vase on the bedside table and hurled it at 'Alistair.' The demon dodged effortlessly, and turned to glower at her in irritation.

"I told you, I don't know what happened," it snapped. "But I do indeed appear to be stuck here – in your head, with you." He steepled his fingers, and gave her a predatory grin. "I mean, really, you're getting your just desserts, in a way. You _did_ try to kill me, after all. That wasn't very nice."

Moira wanted to scream, to rage, to weep and cry and tear the room apart in despair, but instead she sat there, motionless, cold, and numb, staring in horror at the thing she'd sacrificed everything to kill, and yet somehow had failed. _She_ had failed, and now she was trapped here in this hell with it for company, and no escape. What had gone wrong – how had Riordan been so wrong? She had killed it – she'd _known_ she had. She remembered plunging her sword into the dragon's skull, and then all had gone white. It had died. She'd _felt_ it die. But instead of blinking out of existence, her soul destroyed and hurtling into the void, she was somehow trapped here, wherever this was, with only the demon itself for company.

Oblivion would have been preferable.

* * *

_The city was aflame, and the battle raged on. Darkspawn swarmed, innumerable, through the streets, while the harried defenders struggled to stem the tide, erecting hastily built ramparts to hold the horde at bay. It was not going well; if the Grey Wardens did not succeed in their mission, the city would be overrun in two days' time._

_Above the fray, the raven watched, and waited._

_It had not been an easy decision to make, but, if she were honest, she'd been considering the possibility for a long time. That had made things easier when the necessity inevitably arose. She had not been surprised when the fool Warden had rejected the ritual. The Warden was a noble-born brat, and she was full of all the stupidities and prejudices that privilege afforded – what reasons had she ever had to consider that there was more to life than what she'd been told by her wealthy lordly parents and her coddling Chantry nursemaids? She'd hoped the Warden's feelings for the traitor general might be enough to make her see reason, but even then, she'd refused. Stubborn and stupid. They were all so stubborn and stupid, and now they'd pay the price._

_They'd never gotten on, she and the Warden. The Warden was one of those insufferable altruists, the kind who stopped to rescue kittens from trees and save old ladies from burning buildings. No one had ever stopped to save her, or look out for her. She'd learned early and often that no one looked out for you, and you'd best learn to look after yourself. And that was how it should be – it was the way of the world. You learned how to take care of yourself, or you died. The weak perished and the strong survived. The Warden rewarded people's weakness, indulged their helpless frailty. What good did that do? The weak would continue to be weak, and the next time they faced peril, there would be no valiant Grey Warden there to save them from themselves. What would they do then? She had tried to convince the Warden, but her words had fallen on deaf ears. The girl's head was filled with a nauseating combination of noblesse oblige and Chantry fables. So naturally she'd balked at the offer._

_She had foreseen it – and that was why she had devised a backup plan, so to speak. She had been willing to lie, to say whatever it took, to get the Warden to agree to the ritual, but in one matter she had not lied at all – she'd told the Warden that an ancient and powerful being did not deserve to be extinguished from the world, and in that, she had spoken true. The soul of an Old God, an ancient being of unimaginable knowledge and power – slain, erased, destroyed. It was unthinkable. Its survival should not depend on the whims of an ignorant noble whelp who knew little of magic and less of the ancient legends. And so when the Warden had rejected her, she had put her plan into motion._

_The plan required tainted blood, that much remained true. But the Grey Wardens, as secretive and suspicious as they might be, were not such stalwart keepers of their secrets as they might think. From Flemeth she had learned of the ritual; and from Flemeth she'd learned, as a component of the ritual, the secrets of the Warden's Joining. All it required was darkspawn blood and magic. She had both._

_It had been the point of no return; even Flemeth, with all her centuries of accumulated wisdom, knew of no way to reverse the Joining, to untaint the blood. She had nearly quailed then and abandoned her plan; for she had no desire to subject herself to the taint if there was a chance her ritual would fail. But then she thought of Flemeth, her monstrous mother, the keeper of greater secrets than most mundanes could even imagine. She had always been a pawn in Flemeth's game, her womb a bargaining chip for the Old God's soul, her very body a shell into which Flemeth planned to slip someday, once her own skin was too old to be of further use. Why should Flemeth hold all the secrets, and all the power? She knew that Flemeth feared her. How much more would Flemeth fear her if she, too, possessed the immortal secrets of the gods?_

_And so she'd drank deeply, her body contorting and twisting in agony as the taint surged through her blood, the song of the Archdemon, the tortured Old God, ringing in her ears. When she'd recovered, the army had a day's head start on her, and she knew she had to reach Denerim before the Wardens. A small matter for one who can travel as the crow flies._

_The ritual itself was modified to suit her new purpose. With no empty vessel, the gambit was riskier – almost too risky. Despite the taint in her blood, she'd nearly quailed again – if she was wrong, and the transfer didn't work, she risked destroying herself, just as the noble, stupid Warden intended to do. She had debated finding a man and attempting, at the last, to conceive another child, a child that would share her taint – but she rejected that plan almost at once. She knew it would be no difficult work to bed a man, but now that she bore the taint, she did not know if the god's soul would be drawn to her before the child's regardless, and it seemed pointless to bother._

_That was when she'd been forced to admit that, dangerous though her new plan was, she found it more desirable than the original. Flemeth would do anything to keep her from gaining power – she had no doubt that Flemeth had planned to kill her once the child was born and take it, and its knowledge, for herself. But now, she would be a force to be reckoned with, and when Flemeth returned, as she knew was inevitable, she would be ready. Flemeth would not find her such easy prey now._

_She'd performed the ritual, with painstaking care, the old magic surging through her tainted blood like fire. Her part in the play was done, at least for now. Now all she could do was watch, and wait. The battle raged on, and the city burned below. The great dragon was wounded, and the Wardens had assaulted the fortress where it had made its final redoubt. The end was coming, and with it, her ultimate triumph, or her ultimate failure._

_It had been the fool girl Warden, in the end, who had done it. It had been amusing to watch them squabbling over who should make the soul-destroying sacrifice, but in the end, thanks to a fortuitous injury to the teyrn, the girl had seized her chance and plunged her blade into the dragon's skull. The pure white light radiated from the dying beast, and she completed the final aspect of her ritual, opening herself up to the soul –_

_A shockwave slammed into her with massive force, and she was flung to the ground like a ragdoll. Her blood burned and her mind screamed and she felt something – someone – tickling at the edges of her mind, forcing its way into her essence. She was not a docile Circle mage, and as a result of their all-consuming paranoia about 'abominations,' she knew things about spirits that they never would – and she knew that the key was to not allow the spirit to overwhelm you, to subsume you beneath its presence and displace your own soul. It was possible for a mortal and a spirit to share the same vessel – that tedious old Circle hag was living evidence of that. But this was no ordinary spirit, and the battle would be all the more difficult. But Flemeth had taught her well. The Old God invaded her, filled her with its essence, but she – Morrigan – held on. She concentrated all of her energy, all of her power and her magic, into holding onto her soul as it was buffeted and tossed about by the unceasing assault of the god looking for purchase. But still she held on, refusing to be bowed, refusing to bend or to yield. At last, the pressure eased, the wind slacked, and, just as the seas calm after a fearsome storm, so too did her soul relax, intact and whole, still in the center of her being._

_But no longer alone._

_She perceived two things at once: the overwhelming Presence of something else, someone else, within her, like a constant companion, privy now to her every thought and memory. She had been prepared for the eventuality, for the feeling of violation, of loss of self, but still it cut her deeply, and she hoped, for a desperate, agonizing moment, that she had not made a terrible mistake. But there was something else: a sense of desolation, of brokenness, of incompletion. The Presence she felt was mournful; wounded. Something had happened to it. Something irreparable. The ritual had worked; mostly. But it was not Complete. A piece was missing, lost in the ether between life and afterlife. It was regrettable, tragic, even. But it was, on the whole, a far better outcome than could have been expected._

_Soothing the distressed and broken soul that curled up next to her self like a wounded animal, she rose unsteadily to now-human feet, and looked around her. She was on the ground, in the market district in Denerim. The corpses of darkspawn littered the market square around her, and dazed survivors had begun emerging from their homes, unwilling to believe that the nightmare was truly over. She supposed she blended in – shocked, dazed, unsteady on her feet. No one would question her presence, but if anyone associated with the Warden saw her – well, it was best to leave quickly._

_Taking care that no one was watching, she assumed the form of the raven again and took wing, flying south, towards the city walls and, eventually, the safety of the Wilds. She wondered, idly, if she would be able to take on the dragon's form now that she shared her Self with an Old God. Perhaps that was where Flemeth had learned her trick. Perhaps that was why Flemeth had not wanted her to seek out such knowledge for herself. She could not wait to see the look on Flemeth's face when the old Witch realized what she'd done. It would be worth all of the risk, the danger, the worry, just for that one moment._

_Prepare yourself, Flemeth. I am coming, and now even you will not be able to stop me._


	14. Though All Before Me Is Shadow

As the days crawled by, gradually but inexorably turning into weeks, Ferelden slowly began to rebuild.

The fires in Denerim had fully extinguished themselves after the third night, thanks in large part to a concerted effort on the part of the weary and battleworn soldiers who tromped through the devastated city, going house to house in a valiant effort to salvage what the darkspawn had spared in the aftermath of their hasty departure back to the Deep Roads. The markets had reopened a week later; the merchants, true to form, had groused about lost wages and ruined wares. A week after that, the city almost seemed to have recovered its normal routine – at least, if one ignored the blackened shells of burned-out buildings or the constant acrid stench of burning flesh, consumed en masse by funeral pyres that raged day and night.

The city's slow return to normalcy went nearly unnoticed by Loghain. Anora – of whom he had seen less and less in the ensuing days as she worked tirelessly to tend to the nation's reconstruction – had gently suggested that he might want to keep a discreet profile, at least for now. Though he'd regained a measure of esteem for his actions in the Battle of Denerim, memories were fresh, and there were many who would not take kindly to the sight of the man who had, in Anora's circumspect words, "contributed to the tensions that have divided Ferelden." And so, not wanting to burden his daughter with any more troubles than were already piled high on her plate, he had acquiesced, and had remained within the gilded prison of the Royal Palace, feeling increasingly restless and redundant.

Of course, if he were honest with himself, he remained for Moira as much as for anything else.

Moira's condition had not changed in two weeks. She lay still in quiet repose, appearing to all the world to be gently asleep, and yet she had not once stirred with even the faintest hint of awakening consciousness. He found himself holding vigil by her bedside on most days; sometimes seated next to her, holding her hand and speaking to her in hushed and gentle tones the latest news of the day, while other times he sat at the well-apportioned desk in the corner of the room, lost in his own reading, but unwilling to leave her alone. It was, after all, entirely his fault that she suffered so, trapped in a static limbo between life and death. If he could not trade places with her, as he'd intended on the roof of Fort Drakon, then he would at least make certain that she did not fade away, forgotten in the wake of the triumph over the darkspawn.

He had loved his wife dearly. His Celia had been sweet, gentle, and kind; a loving wife and a wonderful mother to Anora. But Moira stirred his blood in a way he had not known since Rowan – no, that was not right. She stirred his blood in a way he had never known. He should never have been so selfish to allow her to come to him that night in Redcliffe, should never have allowed her to share his bed. He had always been able to close himself to others when necessary; a useful skill to have when emotional attachment could cloud decisions that required a clear head and a hardened heart. He should have tried harder to push her away – been crueler, more savage, allowed her to focus all of her hatred for Howe onto him. He should have lied and claimed to have induced Howe to sack Highever, should have bragged about all of his mistakes and the things he knew he had done wrong; anything to drive her away. But he hadn't, and now she paid the price for his weakness.

He sat in his usual chair by her bedside, his hand resting gently against her shoulder as he released a heavy sigh. Her mabari hound – his only stalwart companion these days, who, like Loghain, refused to leave Moira's side – snored softly beside the bed, offering no distraction from his heady contemplations. The intervening days since the battle, spent largely in his solitary vigil, had given him plenty of time to reckon with the insanity of the final days of the Blight, when everything had spiraled so desperately and completely out of control. Each day that passed seemed to bring both greater clarity and diminished recollection; he saw, with ever-increasing lucidity, the disastrous consequences of so many of his actions, even as the memory of his motives had receded deep into the recesses of his mind, like a rapidly-fading dream dissolving into haze upon waking. So little of it now made sense; so much of it filled him with a deep shame and regret as he viewed it in the stark light of day.

He knew he had done the right thing at Ostagar, accusations of regicide be damned. He'd saved what he could of Ferelden's army from Cailan's arrogance and folly, and confronted the threat of a massed army of Orlesian chevaliers, waiting for their chance to swarm across the border and take advantage of Ferelden's vulnerability to reclaim their lost prize. Or at least, that had been his intention – before everything had gone wrong. But out of all of his regrets, all of his shame, none weighed more heavily on him than his acceptance of the counsel of Rendon Howe, and his decision – which he now saw, with the benefit of hindsight, had been subtly molded by Howe to remove the last obstacle to the arl's violent conquest of Highever – to declare war on Moira. He'd known her for her entire life, for the Maker's sake, and her family too. He should have known that she was no Orlesian agent, that Howe's insidious 'suggestions' were designed to play directly to his suspicions and paranoia while accomplishing the usurper's own agenda. The more he thought of how thoroughly he'd been played by Rendon Howe, the more disgusted he grew. He'd always regarded himself as clear-headed and rational, impervious to the manipulations and puppeteering of others; and yet he'd allowed Howe to pull his strings until even his daughter's life had been imperiled by his reckless blindness.

He huffed another agitated sigh, raking a hand through his hair as he stood from his bedside chair, Moira's undisturbed repose a silent condemnation of his sins. He'd just decided that he needed to clear his head with a vigorous walk – and this time he was going to leave the palace, discretion be damned – when a swirl of swelled voices from the outside corridor reached his ears, growing louder as they approached.

" – can't _believe_ he has the gall to be in there with her, as if he isn't responsible for everything that happened! At least Howe's rotting in the Void where he belongs, but Loghain is almost as bad. How dare he? How dare –"

"Please, just listen! I know my father has done much wrong, and whether you choose to believe me or not, he realizes it too. But he was _not responsible_ for what happened to your family! That evil lies entirely on Rendon Howe's head, and the arl has paid for his crimes with his life."

"But not before he spent a good long while as your father's lapdog, as I understand it – maybe Loghain didn't swing the sword, but he certainly didn't do anything to bring justice to their murderer! And for him to lurk over Moira like a circling vulture – I won't stand for it!"

"Teyrn –"

The door burst open, revealing to Loghain's gaze an enraged Fergus Cousland, trailed by a rather distressed-looking Anora. Loghain blinked heavily, temporarily caught askew by the sight – Fergus Cousland was dead. Wasn't he? Moira had certainly seemed to think so.

"You son of a bitch." Fergus wasted no time in stalking across the room to glower menacingly at Loghain, his eyes ablaze with fury. "Get away from her right now." His gaze flickered from Loghain's face to observe Moira, lying serene in her bed, and the rage in his eyes wavered as a wrenching expression of anguish filled them at the sight.

"Oh Maker, Moira," he breathed, brushing brusquely past Loghain to kneel at his sister's bedside. "I thought you were dead for so long, after Howe – and then the Blight, and –"

The younger man ceased speaking abruptly, and lowered his head to rest against Moira's shoulder. Soon the sound of softly muffled sobs reached his ears, and Loghain, not wanting to intrude on such an intimate family reunion, turned to regard Anora, who shrugged at him apologetically.

"He arrived at the palace today," she explained _sotto voce_. "Evidently Howe's men ambushed his company of knights just east of Ostagar a few days before the battle. He's been lost in the Korcari Wilds ever since, healing from his wounds, and only just recovered enough to travel to Denerim when he heard that Moira was leading the army against the Archdemon." She cast Fergus a sympathetic glance. "I could hardly tell him he couldn't see his sister after everything that has happened."

"No. Of course not." Loghain felt a strange mix of apprehension and relief as he watched the young Lord Cousland – _no,_ he mentally corrected himself, _Teyrn Cousland, now_ – tenderly stroking his sister's hair as he wept. He was, above all, glad that the young man had survived against all odds – not only because it was right and fitting that a Cousland should recover the teyrnir that Howe had stolen, but also because it would be a great comfort and solace to Moira to know that her family was not entirely gone. Glad though he might be, he nevertheless felt a distinct undercurrent of trepidation – Fergus's reaction to him had been less than cordial (even if understandably so, under the circumstances), and he did not at all look forward to the other man's reaction when he learned the extent of Loghain and Moira's relationship.

Dane, who had been stirred from his slumber by the commotion in Moira's sickroom, eagerly snuffled at Fergus, his tail wagging exultantly. Fergus, distracted from his grief by the wet nose and rhythmically licking tongue of a happy mabari, turned to regard the dog with an expression of surprise and relief.

"And you made it too, Dane? Good," he said, scratching the dog behind his ears. "I'm glad. Moira will be so happy to see you when she wakes up. You never left her side, did you, boy?" Dane woofed in affirmation, and Fergus laughed, his voice shaky and full of gratitude. The dog blissfully accepted Fergus's attentions, before turning his head to look beseechingly at Loghain.

Fergus followed the dog's gaze, and narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "So, you managed to earn Dane's trust, did you?" The dog woofed his agreement, and Fergus's scowl deepened. Placing a final, reassuring hand on Moira's shoulder, he rose from her bedside to stand before Loghain again.

"So – from what I hear, you spent months trying to kill my sister. You allied with the man who butchered our family. You sent assassins and soldiers after her. You put out a warrant for her arrest. But now – " he gestured broadly at Moira and Dane – "I'm supposed to believe that that's all just water under the bridge? That somehow you've managed to convince my sister that you mean her no harm, after months of evidence to the contrary? Forgive me if I find this all a bit hard to swallow."

Loghain sighed and resisted the urge to rub away the tension headache that had begun to form behind his temples. "Nothing you have said is false," he admitted. "The months after Ostagar were dark days, for all of us. I made a great deal of mistakes, many of them grievous. I offer no excuses for my conduct. In return, I ask that you believe that my regard for your sister is genuine. I – " His voice wavered, caught on the edge of an admission that he was unsure he wanted to make.

"I care for your sister very much," he relented. If anyone deserved the truth, it was Moira's brother. Though perhaps not the whole truth, at least right now. "She showed me mercy when no one else would have done so in her place. She gave me a chance to begin to atone for the wrongs I have done to my country and my people. She is a remarkable woman, and I regret every moment she suffers for my mistakes. I should have been the one to slay the demon, and I should be the one lying there in her place."

Fergus's glare smoldered hotly for a long moment, and Loghain began to worry that his words had not only failed to dim the younger man's anger, but had in fact made it stronger; but then Fergus closed his eyes and released a long, slow sigh.

"I'm not going to pretend that I can begin to understand any of this," he said, the fury evaporating from his voice to be replaced by a deep weariness. "The last time I was anywhere near civilization, the king was alive, and so were my parents. Everything's changed, and…" He sighed, and turned to regard Moira with a sorrowful gaze.

"I just need some time, that's all," he said softly.

"Of course," Anora stepped in, clearly relieved that the confrontation between Fergus Cousland and her father had gone much better than she'd feared. "I understand that you need to spend some time with your sister, and I am sure my father will be content to take his leave, knowing that Moira is in such safe and caring hands." She cast a pointed look at Loghain for emphasis, and he resisted uttering a scornful harrumph. For the Maker's sake, he could take a hint. She needn't be so bloody _overt_ about it.

"Certainly," he agreed. "I know you will take care of her. Perhaps we can speak again soon."

"Perhaps," Fergus repeated, though his tone belied his lack of enthusiasm for such a prospect.

"If you need anything at all, Teyrn Cousland, please do not hesitate to call on me directly," Anora said, gauging – probably correctly, Loghain mused – that she was a far more palatable interlocutor to the elder Cousland at the moment. "I cannot overstate what a relief it is to have you returned to us."

He looked up from his place at Moira's bedside, where he had resumed his contemplations. "Thank you, Your Majesty," he said quietly. "That is most kind of you."

Anora nodded, her eyes lingering on Fergus for another moment, before she turned to the door, gently taking her father's elbow in hand and ushering him out with her. Once they were outside Moira's sickroom and the door shut, he turned to regard her with an exasperated glare.

"For the Maker's sake, Anora, I don't need to be shepherded about like an errant child," he groused. "I had no intention of imposing myself where I was not wanted."

"Perhaps," Anora said, using that anodyne tone that he knew she used to placate difficult courtiers. He ground his teeth in irritation. "But you do have a history of being rather persistent when you put your mind to it. I merely wanted to diffuse any tensions that might have arisen."

"Another crisis of state averted," he quipped. Upon receiving a huffy glare from his daughter, he relented. "Yes, fine, I shall take my leave. But I won't be chased away from Moira's side indefinitely, brother or no. You might as well prepare him for that eventuality." Leaving the queen to roll her eyes at him, he made his way through the corridors of the royal palace, for once lacking a certain destination.

Aimlessness did not suit him. He had always gone through life with a clearly-defined objective towards which he inexorably moved – staying one step ahead of Orlesian soldiers, whittling down their forces in a drawn-out war of attrition, offering his cautious and practical advice to King Maric, learning how to administer a teyrnir and assume the mantle of nobility, protecting Ferelden from the Orlesians and the Blight. He had not always done things right, or well – but he had done them, consequences be damned. But what was his purpose now, in the post-Blight world? He was a Grey Warden, but a Grey Warden's purpose was to defeat the Blight. The Blight had been defeated, and now what was left for him? The woman he loved needed him, but he had no idea what he could do to help her – he was no healer, nor cleric, and the solution to her illness was utterly beyond him. There _had_ to be something that could be done – she was not dead, which meant there had to be hope, didn't there? But he had long found hope to be a fallow field, upon which a sensible man did not rely for sustenance.

Despite these brooding thoughts, he soon found that his feet had carried him to the palace chapel. The sunburst icon of the Chantry glittered against the door in magnificent red and gold stained glass, illumined from within by a surfeit of candlelight. Loghain sighed and placed his hand against the door. He'd never been an overly devout man – he'd always believed that the Maker recognized and rewarded purpose and action far more than He cared for the ritualistic supplications of religious worship. And yet, as his hand rested against the door, a nagging sense of rightness pulled at him from within, as though his feet had not been so aimless after all when they'd delivered him to the door of the chapel. Heaving another sigh of resignation, he pushed open the door and entered.

The Chantry chapel was lit in the softly flickering light of dozens of candles, all arrayed concentrically around the large pillar of flame that burned brightly at the base of the statute of Andraste, the Maker's Bride. The chapel was deserted, for which Loghain was eminently grateful; had it been occupied, he might have turned around and left without another word. He'd always been intensely uncomfortable exhibiting anything resembling vulnerability in the presence of others, and there were few things he found more vulnerable than openly beseeching the Maker for providence.

He sat down on the narrow bench directly before Andraste, whose open arms and gentle smile seemed to issue a welcoming invitation specially meant for him. With a long, slow sigh, he bowed his head, feeling the tension seeping out of his body as he relaxed his muscles, breathing in the subtle aroma of soothing incense as his eyes adjusted to the soft, dim light. He raked a hand anxiously through his hair as he sat there, the peaceful stillness of the chapel filling him and making him aware of his overwhelming lack of certainty. Praying in the Chantry seemed to bring solace to so many, and yet, as he sat there in the presence of the Maker's Bride, he felt as though the silence only brought more questions to which he didn't have the answers. He didn't even know how one was supposed to pray. Did people recite the Chant of Light? He'd always had trouble remembering the verses by heart. Did they ask the Maker for a list of desires, as a child might beg for presents, in the hope that He was in a giving mood that day? He'd always found such prayers to be both presumptuous and narcissistic. Who was he – who was anyone – to ask a favor of the Maker? And who was anyone to believe that they, above others, deserved to have that prayer answered?

"This is ridiculous," he breathed to himself. "I don't know what to say, and I wouldn't know how to say it if I did. I'm not sure what I thought I'd find in here. Peace? I hardly deserve peace after everything I've done. Answers? I can't seriously have expected a statue to tell me what I should do." He scoffed to himself, resting his head in the palms of his hands as he sat, bowed, on the bench. "I only want to help Moira. If anyone ever deserved the Maker's mercy and grace, it is she. And yet she lies beyond all mortal help, while I, despite all my sins, sit in here fumbling over my words. How is that justice? Where is the Maker's hand in any of this?"

"'Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light; and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.'"

The voice, clarion clear and full of faith, filled the chapel around him, and Loghain jerked upright at once, startled out of his reverie by the sudden interruption of his solitude. He spun around, equal measures mortified and indignant that his soliloquy had been intruded upon, and found himself regarding the serene countenance of the red-haired Orlesian bard.

"I apologize for the interruption," she said softly, her flowery accent grating against Loghain's ears like a blade screeching against steel armor. "But it is good that you are here. Perhaps the Maker Himself drew you here, for I have been meaning to speak with you."

"And you thought you'd find me in the Chantry?" he scoffed, still bristling over the unwanted intrusion into his private, clumsy attempt at prayer. "What could possibly have possessed you to search for me here? A fortunate coincidence, that is all."

"Perhaps," she replied enigmatically, and Loghain ground his teeth together. This was why he'd always disliked Chantry zealots – they could twist literally any word or event into a 'sign' from the Maker Himself. "But I did not come here in search of you. I came here to pray for the Maker's guidance. I did mean to speak with you afterwards – I only thought I'd find you in Moira's room. You've saved me a trip," she added impishly, as she joined Loghain on the bench.

"Well, what do you want, Orlesian?" Loghain knew, deep in his heart, that Moira would not approve of his brusque manner; she genuinely liked Leliana, and he grudgingly had to admit that the bard had apparently been a true and devoted friend to the woman he loved. His charitable feelings too often fought a losing battle against his intrinsic aversion to anything Orlesian, however, and today was no exception.

"I know you love Moira," Leliana began without prelude. The abruptness of her statement jarred him out of any affected disdain, and he could only gawp at her in astonishment.

"Oh, it is not as if you have kept it a secret," she chided gently. "I know you were close before the final battle. I saw how you went to her at Fort Drakon, how your heart was broken by her sacrifice. I know you have barely left her room in days. If you mean to be subtle about your affections, you are doing a rather poor job." Loghain hardly knew what to say to that – laid out so starkly, he supposed he could not argue, even if he'd wanted to, which he found he didn't. If Moira trusted the Orlesian, then… perhaps she was not entirely suspicious. Even if she was a bard and a spy.

"So I do love her. What of it? Surely there's a purpose to your words, bard."

"My name is Leliana, Teyrn Loghain." Though her voice remained cordial, Loghain detected a core of steel beneath the silken tones for the first time. "I have not been a bard for years. Must we forever be defined by the worst things we have done? The Maker says that this is not so. 'The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction.' This is as true for me as it is for you."

"So you can quote the Chant of Light. Impressive," he groused, nettled. "I suspect you weren't looking for me so you could preach to me of repentance. My sins are my own, as is my atonement. I don't need to confess anything to you or anyone else."

"I am not asking you to. If you are sincere in your desire to atone, then the Maker will grant you His grace. You may think you are beyond His aid, but if I can turn away from the terrible things I have done, so can you. He will turn away none who honestly seek Him." Leliana forestalled Loghain's protests with an upturned hand. "But you are correct – I did not intend to speak of the Maker to you. At least, not directly."

"Then what is this about? I tire of this wordplay. This is not Orlais, Leliana, and I do not play the Game. I have no patience for endless verbal jousting."

Leliana smiled – perhaps she took note that, in the midst of his insults, he had relented to the use of her given name. "It is not so unrelated, and this is not the Game. I think I might know how to help Moira. I thought, since you care for her so greatly, you would wish to join me."

"Help Moira? What do you mean, 'help her'? Help her how? And why didn't you bloody well say so to begin with?" Loghain stared incredulously at Leliana, who frowned at him.

"Mind your tongue! We are in a House of the Maker!"

Loghain snorted a loud harrumph of disdain as he fixed a penetrating glare at Leliana, searching her face for any signs of obfuscation. Finding none, he found his interest piqued, even as a small, nascent seed of hope sprouted, against all better wisdom, deep in his heart.

"You said you know how to help Moira," he gritted out as patiently as he could manage. "What did you mean? Help her awaken from her sleep? Or do you only mean to 'help' her with some vaguely mystical Chantry-mouse twaddle? If you mean the latter, then allow me to assure you that I have no patience for any meaningless nonsense, especially in regards to Moira."

"Tell me, Loghain," Leliana challenged, her voice suddenly firm and unyielding. "How did Moira ever find her way past the stone walls you've built around your heart? You glare and mutter and snarl and growl, anything to avoid revealing what you might really be feeling beneath all of that rage. You trust no one but yourself and you shut away the world, even if it means blinding yourself to what is right in front of you. I know you don't like me because I am Orlesian, but I am not asking you to like me. I _am_ asking you to trust that I care for Moira, just as you do, and that I want to help her – that I _can_ help her. I came to you because I thought you might want to help her too. But perhaps I was mistaken – perhaps you only want to wallow in your grief and anger and feel pity for yourself. In that case, I hope you will find what you seek." She stood abruptly, her face a mask of steel, and turned to leave.

A part of him – a rather large part, if he were honest with himself – wanted to sneer and turn away in disgust. Let her have her little tantrum and leave. It meant nothing to him. What did she know of him, or of his feelings for Moira? She was just an Orlesian bard, playing his affections like a lute as she was wont to do, being an experienced practitioner of the Game. Let her leave. What did he care? He would find a way to help Moira on his own. As he always had.

And yet, somehow, another part of him – a smaller part, a quieter part, but with a voice which insistently demanded to be heard – rejected the loud, angry voice, the one that had always insisted that he go it alone, that he trust nobody. He'd listened to that voice for far too long – and look where it had led him. Into ruin. Into disgrace. He should have died at the Landsmeet – but Moira had trusted him, despite all reason to the contrary. He was alive because she had had faith in him.

Now it was time for him to have faith. He owed her that much, at the very least.

"Wait." Leliana stilled just before the chapel door. Loghain took a deep breath and swallowed his pride and his vitriol.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I… of course I want to help Moira. If there is anything I can do, then please. Tell me. I will do whatever I can. I would do anything for her." He meant to say more, but his throat suddenly closed, and he knew no more words would be forthcoming for some time.

Leliana hovered near the door for several long moments, and he feared that, despite all her rhetoric about the Maker's forgiveness, she would walk away regardless. Well – he could hardly blame her if she did. She wasn't the Maker, after all, and her patience had mortal limits. But then she turned her back to the door and regarded him with an inquisitive and pleased expression.

"I am glad to hear it," she said. She smiled gently at him as she retook her seat on the narrow pew. "To answer your question, even if you didn't ask in earnest – yes, I believe we can truly help Moira awaken from her sleep. And in a way, I have you to thank for the solution."

"Me?" Loghain furrowed his brow at her.

"Yes. It is only because you poisoned Arl Eamon that the idea came to me."

Loghain was not one to flush in shame, but nevertheless, he felt a measure of mortification as he was reminded of one of the worse decisions he had made during his ill-fated regency. He'd never trusted or liked Eamon – the man had an Orlesian shrew of a wife, for the Maker's sake, and made little effort to disguise his desire to climb into bed with Orlais as figuratively as he did literally. He'd also made a grand show of being Cailan's adoring uncle, even though Loghain had spent far more time around the boy than his uncle ever had. Loghain had known, after the ruinous debacle of Ostagar, that Eamon would never forgive him for the decision he'd made, and that the arl's influence among the western bannorn would pit him against Loghain in the days to come. The actual plot had been suggested by Howe, although Loghain had agreed readily enough – Howe's mages had informed him of a maleficar, on the run after a daring escape from the Circle Tower, and had suggested that they blackmail the mage and force him into service, to use his magic to poison Eamon to keep him out of the picture. The intent had only been to incapacitate Eamon, not to kill him – as much as Loghain disliked Eamon, he had no intention of murdering him in such a sly fashion, not to mention that outright poisoning a fellow noble would immediately cast a pall of suspicion over him. No, the intention had merely been for Eamon to fall 'mysteriously ill' for a few weeks, by which time as he recovered, Loghain's play to secure the border would have already been effected. Of course, fate had had other plans.

"How, pray tell, does my poor decision to involve myself with a maleficar give you an idea of how to save Moira?" He furrowed his brows further as he contemplated the weight of his words. "You're surely not suggesting blood magic? It's not… that I wouldn't do anything to help Moira, but… it seems to me that blood magic rarely works in the way its user intends, at least, if any benevolent purpose is intended at all."

"What? No! Blood magic is a crime against the Maker!" Leliana stared at him, horrified. While Loghain could not deny that he was relieved to hear her ardent denial, her words did nothing to clarify what exactly she'd meant when she'd alluded to his poisoning of Eamon.

"Then what? I had Eamon poisoned by a blood mage. I am not proud of it, but if you do not intend to allude to the mage's use of blood magic, then I am at a loss as to what you do mean."

"When Jowan poisoned Eamon, he did not take into account Eamon's mage son," Leliana explained. "A demon, drawn by the boy's grief, possessed him and his family, and prevented Eamon from stirring. Even expelling the demon from Connor's mind in the Fade did not awaken the arl. It was only when Moira obtained the Sacred Ashes of Andraste that Eamon was cured. I cannot believe I did not think of it sooner! Don't you see, Loghain? If Andraste's ashes could heal Eamon, perhaps they can heal Moira too! We must go and obtain them!"

Loghain stared at her in disbelieving wonder. So that was how Eamon had recovered from his ill-intentioned attack? But…

"The Ashes of Andraste Herself? Those are just a myth," he protested.

"That is what I thought too," she admitted quietly. "Of course, I wanted to believe, always. But I still doubted… until I saw them with my own eyes." She reached out and placed a hand on his arm. "They are real, Loghain. _She_ is real! And if anything can help Moira, the ashes can. I know it."

The Sacred Ashes of Andraste. It was a myth, a fable. It had to be. Of course, there were countless chantries from Orlais to Ostwick that claimed to house some relic or other of the Holy Lady or her disciples – a finger bone here, a bit of hair there, all allegedly plucked from the corpses of the Most Holies, though most were assuredly frauds designed to draw in pilgrims with their hard-earned coin. But none of the supposed reliquaries were actually bold enough to claim to hold the earthly remains of _Andraste herself_!

"I know it seems hard to believe, but please – I saw it for myself. So did Moira. I was going to go alone, to Haven – that is where they are, in the Frostback Mountains. But then I realized that you should have the chance to come too. I know how much she means to you, and…" Leliana's voice grew quiet, and she removed her hand from Loghain's arm as she turned to regard the open arms of Andraste above her.

"It didn't seem right to go without you," she added softly.

Loghain was, for once in his life, truly struck speechless. He'd never stopped to wonder why Eamon had recovered – he hadn't meant the poison to be fatal, so perhaps he'd just assumed its effects had worn off naturally. But to find out that Andraste's ashes were real, and that they'd cured the arl, and that they might hold the key to awakening Moira too…

"Thank you," he said sincerely, without a trace of rancor or defensive sarcasm, his eyes meeting Leliana's in the dim light of the chapel. "It was kind of you to think of me. Especially when I have been less than kind to you in return."

"It is all right," she reassured him with a smile. "You are not a bad man, Loghain. Moira would not have loved you if you were. I had hoped you would come around."

He did not know what to say to that, so he said nothing, but he found himself regarding the statue of Andraste, her arms outstretched, her smile beneficent. Perhaps the Maker did answer prayers after all.

"I will go with you," he said. Even if Leliana's hope was in vain, at least now he had a purpose.

"Good," she said, and he could tell she meant it. "Let us leave tomorrow. I don't wish to waste any more time."

At last, there was a sentiment with which they could both agree.


	15. Mysterious Ways

"Would you like me to play my lute again tonight, Loghain? I was thinking perhaps 'The Wild Rover of Redcliffe,' but if you are not in the mood for something so festive, maybe I could try a different arrangement of 'The Dawn Will Come'?"

Loghain gripped his canteen of stew tightly in his hands and refrained from retorting that if he never heard so much as the pluck of a lute string again in his entire life, it would be too soon. Instead, he sighed and bid himself, for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, to remain calm. They had traveled for nearly two weeks across Ferelden, through forest and plain, across the length of the bannorn and down the Imperial Highway through Redcliffe. Now they camped beneath the stars at the foot of the Frostback Mountains, and Loghain's patience for the cheerful bard's endless enthusiasm was beginning to wear thinner the closer they got to their destination.

"You've already played four different arrangements of 'The Dawn Will Come.' How many bloody versions can there be? It's a hymn, not a rousing tavern romp." He grimaced as he took a sip of his stew. So much for reining in his tongue.

"Must you always swear?" Leliana scolded. "Fine, if you'd rather hear a 'rousing tavern romp,' I'll play 'Wild Rover.' That is, unless the parlor critic has a personal request?"

"My request would be for some peace and quiet!" Loghain snapped, and immediately felt guilty at Leliana's crestfallen expression. He sighed and placed his stew at his feet.

"I'm sorry, Leliana," he said, surprised at how easily the sincere apology came to him. "Forgive my sharp tongue. I'm restless, that is all. We're nearly to Haven now, and what if…" He trailed off as his eyes fixed on the mountains looming in the near distance, dark shadowy smudges illumined by the skyful of stars overhead.

"What if this doesn't help Moira?" Her voice, devoid of anger, echoed his thoughts, and he felt a renewed surge of shame for losing his patience with her.

"You can't know whether this will work. Perhaps the ashes did help Eamon, but what's to say they'll be able to aid Moira? How can we be certain they are even still at the temple? What if all of this is just a waste of time?"

Leliana was quiet as she placed her lute back in its traveling case and joined him at the campfire. "I believe they are still there," she said finally, after several moments of silence had ensued. "I cannot explain why. It's just a feeling I have – like the vision I had in Lothering. I have faith we will be able to help Moira with the ashes, Loghain."

"But how can you know that?" he persisted. "It's been months since you retrieved them – Maker's breath, it's been weeks since the Landsmeet! Can you really be certain that no one – a relic hunter, the Chantry, anyone – has taken them away?"

"I cannot reassure you," she said enigmatically. "Not in a way that will satisfy you. You are not a man of faith, Loghain. You require evidence, proof. You need to see something with your own eyes, feel it in your own hands, before you will believe it to be true. Nothing I can say to you until we actually reach the temple will change that."

"If I'm such a heathen, then why did you invite me along on your little holy quest?" Loghain grumbled.

"I did not say you were a heathen. I said you were not a man of faith. There is a difference."

Loghain harrumphed, somewhat disappointed that Leliana had not taken his argumentative bait. Sparring with her was far easier and more familiar to him than reckoning with the depths of his faith – in himself, in her visions, or in the Maker.

"It is not that I do not believe you," he said at last. "I only fear that if something has happened to the ashes, then my last chance to save Moira will have disappeared along with them."

"And you blame yourself," she added. He looked up in surprise to find her gaze fixed on him across the campfire. He looked away quickly, unwilling to confront the depths of his own guilt in the reflection of her perceptive eyes.

"Of course I do," he allowed, taking a sullen sip of stew. "And why shouldn't I? I was hardly a friend to her during the Blight. The final strike should have been mine to take. I was the one who deserved to sacrifice everything to save Ferelden – not her. If she never recovers, how can I do anything but blame myself?" The thought of Moira, forever still and unmoving in her peaceful repose, sent a hot stab of grief and remorse through his heart, and he stared stubbornly into the fire, unwilling to allow Leliana to see the anguish in his eyes.

The campfire crackled and popped as Loghain brooded silently for several long moments. He was not the sort of man who believed in miracles – Maker knew he'd never seen any evidence of them, not as a young outlaw on the run from the Orlesians, nor as a world-weary general who'd faced more hopeless battles than he cared to remember. He wanted to believe that the Maker had a better plan for Moira – that despite everything, she could be healed and made whole – but a lifetime of loss and pain had dimmed his faith in the Maker's mercy.

"You truly do love her," Leliana said quietly.

Loghain glanced up sharply at her unexpected words. "My feelings for Moira are not something I wish to discuss," he grumbled, retreating into the familiar comfort of brusque dismissal. He knew if he dwelled too much on thoughts of Moira, he would eventually lose his composure in front of the inquisitive bard, and his pride could not allow that to happen.

"Suit yourself," she replied, nonplussed. "But I think it is sweet and romantic."

"You think everything is 'sweet' and 'romantic,'" he harrumphed. She responded with a gentle, sincere smile, and her refusal to be baited by his abrupt attempts to dismiss the conversation irked him.

"You know, if we are able to save Moira, it will all be thanks to you." Leliana offered in an almost playful tone.

His irritation gave way to puzzled skepticism. "Me? How so?"

"If you had not poisoned Arl Eamon, Moira would have had no cause to seek out the Sacred Ashes," she responded matter-of-factly. "Before we went to the temple in Haven, I had only thought of the ashes as a legend, a tale lost to time and history. It was only the Arlessa's insistence that we search for them, and the lack of any other alternative, that led us to discover them. So you see, Loghain, if you had never poisoned Eamon, we would never have found the ashes, and Moira would be doomed to lie in her sleep forever."

"I think you give me far too much credit," Loghain said ruefully. "Would that my motives had been so pure."

"The Maker moves in mysterious ways. Perhaps He was moving through you even then."

"Perhaps," Loghain said, though he remained far from convinced. He remained seated before the dying fire, long after Leliana finished the last of her stew and informed him that she was going to her tent. He set little store in her aphorisms about the Maker and His mysterious ways, but he had to admit that she was right enough about him – he wouldn't believe until he took the ashes himself, brought them to Denerim, and saw Moira awaken with his own eyes. But there was no use in endlessly ruminating – they would be to Haven by sundown tomorrow, and then he could see for himself.

He wished he had Leliana's deep faith, her unshakeable certainty, but the only certainties in his life had been war, pain, and death. He thought of Moira, of how she'd managed to remain essentially good and kind even amidst the Blight and a brutal war that had claimed the lives of her family. He knew now why she'd appreciated Leliana's company so much. Even if she was not as openly devout as the bard, she believed, as did Leliana, in the essential goodness of people, in the mercy of the Maker, and in the hope for a better world. That, he realized with a heavy heart, was what they had that he lacked: hope. But without hope, what did he have?

"I hope you are right about this," he said quietly, in the general direction of Leliana's tent. "And I hope that if the Maker has any mercy for the world at all, He spares some for Moira." Standing up, he stomped out the last of the fire's dying embers, an old, ingrained habit from the days of the occupation, and headed to his own tent. Unbundling his bedroll, he slipped inside, but sleep proved as elusive as any sign from the Maker.

* * *

Fergus Cousland huffed a dissatisfied sigh as he studied himself critically in the large mirror that adorned the dresser in Moira's room. He'd never been a vain man – much the opposite – but he barely recognized himself in his reflection these days. The face that had first greeted him in the mirror upon his arrival in Denerim had been a stranger's – an emaciated, bearded wraith with hollow eyes and the grim, lined countenance of a man thrice his age. A hot bath, a shave and several weeks of recuperation and renourishment had brought back some semblance of his former self, but he knew, as he regarded his still-too-thin face and the deep weariness that had settled over his features like a shroud, that the man he used to be would never return his gaze in the mirror again.

He looked over at his sister with a pang. Still she lay, unchanged from the day before and the day before that. Dane lay curled up at the foot of the bed, his tail wagging lazily as he dreamed the simple dreams of dogs. Fergus had spent the better part of the morning in the room with her, and while he hated leaving her unattended – after all the attempts on their lives, a part of him still feared that an assassin would be hiding in the shadows, waiting to end her life in a flash of silver – he was beginning to feel stir crazy. Ever since Anora had informed him abruptly that Loghain had hared off on some quest to 'find aid for Moira,' Fergus had been anxious and impatient, awaiting Loghain's return with an eagerness that was marred only by his lingering suspicion of the former regent.

Sighing softly, he walked over to his sister and bent to place a soft kiss on her forehead. She did not stir, and though he knew she wouldn't, he felt his heart clench tightly in sadness.

"I'll be right back, little pup," he said, unable to resist cracking a melancholy smile – she'd always hated when he called her that, and had she heard him, she'd have had his hide. "Dane will keep you safe while I'm gone." He cast a skeptical eye on the softly snoring mabari, whose legs twitched as he chased rabbits in his dreams. "Well, if he can be arsed to wake up sometime this year, that is."

Closing the door softly behind him – though he would have been sure to slam it off its hinges if he thought she'd hear it and wake up – he made his way down the corridor of the palace, deciding to make his way to the kitchens for a bite to eat before perhaps taking a stroll around Denerim. It broke his heart to see the wreckage and ruin of his nation's capital city, but he found himself heartened by the fortitude and strength shown by Fereldans from all walks of life who had been committed to steadily rebuilding everything that had been destroyed, brick by brick. He might even volunteer to join one of the rebuilding crews today – perhaps a bit of hard manual labor would take his mind off of his restless waiting.

He'd made his way out of the personal wing of the palace and was passing the queen's outer parlor room when he heard heated voices from within, one of which he immediately identified as Anora's.

" – isn't even here! It has been several weeks since the Blight ended, and I find your timing more than a bit disingenuous, Arl Eamon. You had ample opportunity to address this matter when my father was still in Denerim to defend himself. I will not convene a tribunal to strip my father of his lands and titles behind his back. I do not see why I should convene such a tribunal at all, quite frankly. Moira Cousland accepted my father's surrender and conscripted him into the Grey Wardens. That should be penance enough, even for you."

"And you know as well as I do that Grey Wardens are forbidden to hold titles," the other voice – Arl Eamon's – intoned. "Furthermore, Loghain was found guilty of crimes against Ferelden at the Landsmeet – for which you denounced him, if I am not mistaken." The sense of satisfaction in Eamon's voice was apparent even through the door. "It would be a shame for the beginning of your solitary reign to be marred by accusations of nepotism, Your Majesty."

"If that is a threat, Eamon, it is a remarkably poor one." Anora's voice was tight with anger. "You had no such compunctions against Grey Wardens holding titles when you maneuvered Alistair into a bid for the throne, and I assume you are not suggesting that I strip Moira Cousland of her ladyship, either. I will not hesitate to remind the nobility of the inconsistency of your convictions if you decide to pursue this issue."

"Your Majesty's position is clear." Eamon's voice was cordial but strained. "But, with respect, I am not the only participant of the Landsmeet who has doubts about Loghain's fitness to remain as Teyrn of Gwaren. You may not appreciate my words, but I came to you as a courtesy – if you do not address your father's culpability for the disastrous civil war in which he embroiled Ferelden, you may find that your support amongst the nobility will erode before you have seen a year on the throne. If I were you, I would prefer to get in front of this matter and resolve it before it becomes a problem, rather than ignore it and allow resentment to fester."

"I beg your pardon? You forget yourself, Eamon – and you forget who rules this country. No tribunal will be convened without royal authority, and I will convene no such tribunal concerning my father's fate when he is not even present to speak for himself. I believe I have made myself clear – now, if that is all, I have business to attend to."

The door opened abruptly, and Queen Anora, looking as angry as Fergus had ever seen her, emerged from the parlor, trailed closely by a red-faced Eamon, who perked up noticeably when he saw Fergus standing in the corridor.

"Teyrn Fergus!" Eamon's voice held none of the ire it had a mere moment ago. "I am pleased to see that you survived Rendon Howe's treachery. I had heard that you were returned to Denerim, but I apologize that I have not had the time to call on you personally. I am very sorry about your family."

"Thank you, Arl Eamon," Fergus replied, conscious that both the arl and the queen must have realized that he'd overheard their disagreement. "It's been… difficult."

"No doubt. The civil war shattered many families and nearly tore our country apart. You must be eager to seek justice." Eamon appraised Fergus with a shrewd eye, and Fergus had the uneasy feeling that he was about to be roped into the debate.

"Howe is dead by my sister's hand," Fergus replied, his innards clenching in roiling anger at the thought of the traitorous filth who'd butchered his family. _How I wish he'd died by mine_. "Nothing will ever bring them back, but at least I can sleep at night knowing they've been avenged."

"Howe has paid for his crimes," Eamon allowed. "But Loghain, whose usurpation of the crown allowed Howe free reign of your family's teyrnir, remains free and in possession of his wealth and prestige. I would imagine that you of all people would wish to see him punished for abetting Howe's treachery."

"My father was conscripted into the Grey Warden order at the Landsmeet!" Anora interjected. "If you found such punishment to be too merciful, you should have raised your concerns at the time. It is most curious how your newfound desire for vengeance has conveniently manifested only now that my father and Moira Cousland are unable to offer any rebuttal to your charges."

Fergus narrowed his eyes at Anora's words. The queen was nothing if not savvy, and she surely knew that the mention of his sister in association with Loghain would serve to dissuade him from Eamon's crusade. And yet he knew so little about how – or what – his sister felt in regard to the teyrn. Loghain had been oddly solicitous, in his own gruff, aloof way, ever since Fergus had returned to Denerim, and Fergus had finally allowed that he meant Moira no harm – his solemn daily vigil at her side had been unassuming and sincere.

And now he was gone – Anora had informed Fergus nearly two weeks ago of her father's intentions to seek some mysterious and unmentioned avenue of help for Moira's condition, and Fergus had had no reason to doubt her words thus far. But, of course, the queen would be invested in protecting what remained of her father's tattered reputation – just as Arl Eamon, thwarted at the Landsmeet, would be invested in destroying it.

In the weeks since his return to civilization, Fergus had slowly pieced together a patchwork narrative of the events that had transpired between his ambush by Howe's men outside Ostagar and his desperate flight to the capital upon hearing that his sister led the Grey Warden army. The events of the Landsmeet remained something of a mystery to him, however – he knew that his sister had supported Anora's bid for the throne over the claim of some newly-unearthed bastard heir of King Maric's, and he knew that she had somehow pardoned Loghain for his crimes by recruiting him into the Grey Wardens. But he did not know whether his sister truly trusted the queen, or whether theirs was merely an alliance of convenience. He found himself wishing ardently for his sister's counsel – she would tell him what had truly happened, and whether or not Loghain or Anora or Eamon were trustworthy or treacherous. He did not have enough knowledge to navigate through the tangled and treacherous webs of political posturing just yet.

"We do not know if Moira Cousland will ever awaken, nor do we know where your father has gone, or if he means to return," Eamon responded darkly. "The matter of the teyrnir of Gwaren must be resolved before – "

"My sister will awaken. She will be fine." Eamon's dismissal gave Fergus a focus for his roiling emotions, and he fixed the arl with a steely glare. "Moira saved Ferelden. The least you all can do is wait for her to recover before you start planning tribunals and hearings that require her judgment. I imagine she'll have much to say about Loghain's fate, whatever her feelings about him – but I'd rather hear it from her, and not from anyone else. If you want me to support your tribunal, Arl Eamon, you'll have to wait until I've had a chance to discuss the matter with my sister. Until then, any such discussion is premature."

Eamon narrowed his eyes, clearly displeased. "Very well, Teyrn Fergus. I respect your devotion to your sister. But you must accept the possibility that she will never awaken. Ferelden cannot remain in a state of unchanging stasis alongside Moira Cousland. Sooner or later, decisions must be made as to our nation's future – and as Ferelden's only other teyrn, you will need to play a primary role in those decisions. Please, think about what I have said." He bowed his head stiffly to Anora, and again to Fergus. "Your Majesty. Teyrn. I bid you good day." With that, he strode down the corridor, leaving Fergus standing somewhat awkwardly next to a composed but stern-faced Queen Anora.

"Your Majesty," Fergus said, feeling self-conscious at his belated royal protocol. "I apologize for intruding on your private conversation. I did not intend to step into the middle of your discussion."

"You have nothing to apologize for, Teyrn Fergus," she said briskly. "Arl Eamon hopes to undermine my reign by using my father against me. I am only surprised that he waited this long to make his play."

"He's certainly bold, I'll give him that," he said, casting a glance at the arl's retreating back. He'd never heard his father even speak of King Cailan in such stark language – Maker forbid say anything so impolitic to the king's face. "Who speaks to the queen in such a manner?"

"The man who was very nearly regent for an unwilling and unprepared king," Anora replied primly. "I do not believe his ego has recovered from the defeat he suffered at the Landsmeet."

Once again, Fergus found himself wishing that he could speak with Moira. "I wasn't present for the Landsmeet, but my sister supported your claim for the throne over Maric's bastard. She must have had cause."

Anora's steely demeanor softened slightly as she turned to regard Fergus with a perceptive look. "I would like to think so. For what small measure it is worth, I pray daily for your sister's recovery. I owe her much. I would not have retained my crown without her. I will always owe her my gratitude, whatever Eamon or any others like him may wish. I hope I have been a queen worthy of her support."

Fergus felt his own anger diminishing, and he smiled softly at the queen. "I want to thank you for everything you've done for Moira. She's in excellent hands, and I am grateful for it."

Anora flushed faintly at his praise, and had Fergus not been so adept at reading women, he might have missed it.

"As I said, she has my gratitude." Anora paused, and fixed Fergus with a look he could not decipher. "As do you. I regret that you witnessed the disagreement I had with Arl Eamon, but I appreciate your support. It is not seemly for the Crown to be seen so publicly feuding with such a key noble ally."

"It rather seemed to me that he was feuding with you," Fergus said. "I understand that the business of Loghain's title must be clarified, but it does seem opportunistic that he wants to convene this tribunal without the teyrn's presence. And, quite frankly, if there is any decision to be made, my sister should be there. She probably knows more about Loghain's motivations than anyone else. It isn't Arl Eamon's place to order the monarch of Ferelden about."

"Eamon has always believed his place to be perched on the king's shoulder, whispering into his ear," she said archly. "I am not at all surprised that, when presented with an unwilling listener, he has decided to bypass the crown entirely and proceed with his tribunal whether I approve or not."

Fergus recalled that Eamon had been King Cailan's uncle – surely such a man should be expected to offer advice and wisdom to the king. Anora's resentment could not come merely from his relationship with Cailan.

"You think he's bitter because he supported Maric's bastard's failed claim to the throne?" Fergus asked.

"Among other things, yes. Above all, I believe it grates at him that I rule Ferelden alone without the legitimizing condition of marriage to a Theirin." A troubled look passed briefly across Anora's countenance before her coolly composed mask fitted again into place. "I have always been a mere 'commoner's daughter' to him and many like him. I was never seen as a fit consort for a Theirin king, and Eamon made little secret of his efforts to convince Cailan to discard me." Her mask did not waver, but Fergus, looking closer now, could see the long-buried ache burning dimly behind her eyes. "He believed that our inability to conceive an heir was a curse from the Maker, divine punishment for the king taking a common wife. I could not give legitimacy to such vicious rumors by acknowledging them, but if I had done so, I might have pointed out that Cailan was notably unable to produce any bastards with any of his mistresses."

"I'm sorry," he said softly. He'd heard such scandalized whisperings before, of course – everyone in the Fereldan aristocracy had. He'd never paused to give much thought to the lack of royal heir, but Cailan's carousing ways were not a secret in noble circles, and it _was_ rather curious that the king had failed to produce even a single bastard despite all of his reveling. "You didn't deserve to be the object of such cruel gossip. Besides, it's bollocks anyway – you're as noble as anyone at the Landsmeet, and bugger to Eamon or anyone who says otherwise." Fergus flushed deeply as he realized the crude language that had slipped out in his indignation. "Your Majesty, I beg your pardon –"

His ears were abruptly greeted by a strange, foreign sound – Anora, the straightlaced queen, was laughing. "You needn't apologize, Teyrn Fergus," she said, voice still full of mirth. "I should apologize for feeling so profoundly sorry for myself and allowing you to see such weakness – but I admit, it was all worth it, if only to hear you telling Arl Eamon to bugger himself." Her countenance sobered, though she retained a hint of a smile. "I have always faced challenges as queen, and I suspect I always will. It will not be easy to be the first monarch to break the line of Calenhad, but I believe that the true strength of Ferelden is the spirit of her people, not the inheritance of the royal bloodline."

"Well spoken," he agreed. "Still… I'm sorry about the king. It couldn't have been easy to lose him, especially knowing your father –" He slammed his mouth shut, but the ill-fated words had already escaped.

"Knowing my father betrayed my husband to his death?" She fixed him with a piercing glare, and Fergus prepared himself for the furious onslaught – but to his surprise, she sighed deeply, and when she spoke, her voice was full of regret, disappointment, and sadness – but not anger.

"Cailan never understood my father. Papa was always offering Cailan advice, trying to teach him about war, strategy, history – but Cailan never wanted to listen. He thought Father was a dour, tedious old bore who was constantly comparing him to Maric and finding him wanting. I suppose he wasn't wrong, at that," she said ruefully. "My father is like a mabari. He is fiercely loyal to those he deems worthy, but his loyalty must be earned. If it is not, then he will not hesitate to rip out your throat if he believes it necessary."

"And Cailan never earned his loyalty?"

"He never believed he had to. He took Father's loyalty for granted, and assumed that my father's regard for Maric would pass to him as an inheritance. He paid for that mistake with his life."

"And you forgive Loghain for that?" Fergus shook his head. "I know he is your father, and I know Cailan might have been an imperfect husband, but I also know I could never forgive the man who let my wife die." A spasm of hatred stabbed through his heart as he thought of Oriana, and little Oren, and Howe's sniveling rat face. _My only regret is that I didn't kill the bastard myself_.

"My father did not kill Cailan," she said, to Fergus's surprise. "Oh, there was a time when I thought that he might as well have, but – " She sighed. "Father was right. Cailan killed himself in his own desperate grab for eternal glory. He wanted to be the kind of hero his father was, but he failed to understand that heroes don't just decide to be heroes by leading an army into an impossible battle and winning despite all the odds. It pains me to admit it, but it is the truth."

Fergus was surprised to hear such a confession, and found himself strangely irked – though he'd been unimpressed by Eamon's suspicious insistence on convening a tribunal without Loghain's presence, he found that he nevertheless wanted Anora to acknowledge her father's crimes, to explain why Loghain had allied himself with Howe and why he had spent so long trying to murder Moira. If he wasn't a true regicide, then why had he aligned himself against Moira?

"So maybe he didn't deliberately murder the king at Ostagar," Fergus allowed, "but then why did he ally with the man who butchered my family? Why did he take Howe's side?"

"These questions would be better posed to my father. He did not precisely keep me in his confidence after Ostagar." Fergus caught a fleeting glimpse of something – pain? – behind her eyes, but it was gone as soon as it had arrived. "I will tell you that I do not believe he had anything to do with what happened to your parents. He did not begin to associate with Howe until after his return to Denerim, when the deed was already done."

"But he knew –"

"Yes, he knew what Howe had done," Anora agreed, and Fergus detected a trace of bitterness behind her diplomatic tone. "But as I was not privy to my father's inner thoughts, I can tell you only what I was able to observe myself: that my father was sincere in his belief that abandoning Cailan was a sound military decision, and that shortly after his return to Denerim, Howe approached him and offered his support. Perhaps my father felt as though he needed any allies he could find, however distasteful. All I know is that after Howe insinuated himself into my father's confidence, my father began to rely on his advice more and more, no matter how vile Howe's suggestions were. Why he allied himself so decisively with someone so transparently villainous, I can only wonder."

Fergus frowned. "Accepting Howe as an ally was bad enough. Why take his advice? What leverage could Howe have possibly had over your father to induce him to do his bidding? That makes no sense."

Anora shook her head. "I could not say. Once Howe attached himself to my father, I saw less and less of him. By the time the Landsmeet convened, he was all but a stranger to me – I feared he had gone mad, in truth. He has seemed to return to himself ever since your sister conscripted him into the Grey Wardens, but during the months between the battle at Ostagar and the Landsmeet, my father was as unlike himself as I have ever known him to be."

Fergus frowned in consternation. If Anora knew anything more, she wasn't telling him – but perhaps she was telling the truth, and she knew nothing of the madness that had overcome her father. Yet she'd mentioned that he had seemed to return to normal after the Landsmeet – after he'd joined forces with Moira. He'd spent several weeks on the road with Moira, traveling and fighting alongside her as a Grey Warden, before they had fought the Archdemon together in Denerim, and something must have happened along the way – something that had caused him to change his attitude towards her entirely.

"What about Moira, then? He spent months trying to kill her. But now I'm just supposed to accept that he is… what, exactly? Her comrade? Her friend? Why else would he take it upon himself to sit vigil by her bedside, or go off to wherever mysterious place he's gone to try to help her?"

An odd, almost embarrassed expression crossed Anora's features, and a sudden sense of apprehension slammed into his gut.

"Oh sweet Maker," he breathed. "They're not lovers, are they? Tell me they're not lovers."

In any other context, the awkward discomfiture of Anora's expression would have amused him. In this context, however, he felt only a slowly dawning horror. _No. No no no no no no NO._

"I have never lied to you, Fergus, and I won't start now," she said stiffly. "I don't know for a fact that they are lovers, but…" She trailed off, and Fergus found himself consumed by a mélange of revulsion and panic. Just when he'd finally been able to put his homicidal urges towards Loghain to rest, the thought of the queen's father – _he's old enough to be Moira's father too!_ – taking advantage of his little sister brought them right back to life. _I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill him and then Anora will probably have me executed, but I'm going to kill him anyway._

"Is that why he's gone off like a knight in shining armor to rescue her?" Fergus demanded. "Because they're – ugh, I can't even _say_ it! It's like that'll make it real!"

"Believe me, I find this no less awkward than you do," Anora said uncomfortably. "Your sister _is_ younger than me, remember. The thought of my father sharing intimacies with someone who was not yet alive when I was born is both alarming and disturbing."

"You're telling me! He's almost our father's age!" Fergus scrunched up his face in disgust. "Did you _have_ to use the word 'intimacies?'"

"Would you have preferred I'd said 'sex?'" Anora retorted, and Fergus blanched anew.

"No. No, I definitely would not have. No."

"To answer your question," Anora said pointedly, "yes, I suspect that his feelings for her are the reason he has gone. I do not know where he has gone or why, as I told you a fortnight ago – he offered no details, and I learned long ago that it's easier to take a bone from a mabari than to pry secrets from my father. But he insisted that it was something he had to do and that it might be his only chance to 'save Moira,' as he put it. He also added that he trusted that she was in good hands. I believe he was referring to you."

"Oh, how generous of him," Fergus snarked. Still… if Loghain did actually care about Moira… even if Fergus would rather stab out his own mind's eye than imagine it… if it meant that Loghain would be able to save her, then he could (admittedly with much retching and gagging) live with such a thought.

"Well, your father had better hope he succeeds, then," Fergus growled. He supposed he might not have to kill Loghain for sleeping with his sister (as horrifying as _that_ thought remained) if the Warden managed to rescue her from her strange undeath.

"Yes, let us hope he does," Anora agreed. "I want nothing more than for your sister to be alive and well. Though I fear her recuperation in Denerim will not be relaxing, if Eamon's machinations come to fruition."

Fergus rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. Though he'd done nothing but walk down the corridor, he suddenly felt exhausted, and the thought of engaging in hard labor no longer appealed. He'd only just returned to civilization, and already he'd been confronted with the wreckage of his home, his sister's puzzling illness, the mystery of Loghain's motives, and the viper's den of political intrigue in Denerim. He found himself missing the simplicity of the Chasind village deep in the Korcari wilds, where he'd been nursed back to life by a scrupulously attentive healer, who'd accepted no form of repayment except his assistance in weeding her herb garden.

Perhaps the Chasind had the right idea of things, after all.


	16. Unshaken by the Darkness

Loghain pulled his cloak snugly about his shoulders as the knifelike wind of the Frostbacks sliced through the seams of his traveling armor, leaving him chilled to the bone. The bleached skull of a high dragon regarded him with sightless eyes, its razor-sharp teeth grinning in an eternal rictus of death. According to Leliana, a crazed band of reaver cultists living in Haven had worshipped the dragon, believing it to be Andraste reborn. They had apparently not taken kindly to Moira's interference, and she and her companions had been forced to kill the cultists – and the high dragon itself, for good measure. He found himself quite grateful that Moira had removed the worst of the obstacles that would have impeded this return visit to Haven, though he could not help but pity the creature. It was hardly as though it had asked to be turned into a false god by an insane cult.

"A pity Moira had to kill the dragon," Loghain added, squinting against the bright gleam of the snowcapped peaks. "Did she mean to clear the path for future pilgrims? I can't imagine that the Chantry will ignore something as momentous as the discovery of Andraste's ashes."

Leliana frowned, tugging her own cloak tighter against the wind's assault. "It surely already knows. We could not have found the precise location of the sacred temple without the assistance of Brother Genitivi, who had dedicated his life to finding Our Lady's ashes. If he has not already informed the Divine, I cannot imagine he will wait much longer. Andraste belongs to all of Thedas."

Loghain furrowed his brows. "That may be, but nevertheless, she was still a mortal woman, and her earthly remains are limited. If the Chantry allows pilgrims to come and take a pinch of her ashes, they'll be gone within a few months." _If they even still remain_ , he thought grimly.

"I know." Loghain gathered from Leliana's tone that the same thought had already occurred to her. He trudged after her through the nearly knee-deep snow, until a dim shape rose through the swirling blizzard before them.

"Here – the true Temple of the Sacred Ashes," she said, the apprehension in her voice turned to awe. "This is where Our Lady rests. I admit… I know we are here for Moira, but I am glad that I will have the opportunity to see the ashes again. Perhaps that is prideful of me, but I can't help it."

Loghain snorted softly. "I'm sure Andraste will forgive you. It's not as though you're here as a gawking tourist, after all." That much was true – if there was any truth to Andraste's mercy, then surely Moira was as deserving a recipient of Her grace as Arl Eamon. But his earlier conversation with Leliana nagged at him as he followed her up the stairs to the temple's entrance. Even if the ashes were still present in the temple, what would become of them? If they were truly Andraste's holy relic – and he prayed, for Moira's sake, that they were – then they would quickly become the most valuable urn of ashes in all of Thedas, sought after not just by the Chantry, but by any number of kings, lords, and merchant princes, Andrastian and heathen alike, for reasons that would range from genuine religious devotion to simple mercenary greed.

He shook his head, dispelling any further contemplation as he followed Leliana into the temple doors. He was here for Moira – any other considerations took a distant second to his immediate concern of obtaining the ashes and, with them, the only hope he had of bringing her back.

The chamber they entered was dark and cavernous and retained much of the chill of the frigid mountain air, and yet, as Loghain approached an empty dais at the center of the room, a strange and indescribable sense of peace settled across him, like a comforting blanket tucked round a sleepy child by the hands of a loving parent. Leliana seemed to feel it too – Loghain saw her visibly relax, the tension in her shoulders easing as she loosened her cloak, her face assuming a placid mask of tranquility.

"It's all coming back to me now," she said, her voice soft and far away, lost in memory. "The Guardian will approach us soon, to look into our hearts and judge our worthiness to enter into the presence of Our Lady."

Loghain felt a prickle of apprehension crawl along his spine in spite of the hazy sense of serenity that still gentled him. "Guardian? What guardian? You didn't say anything about a guardian." Instinctively, he reached for his blade.

"Still your hand, Teyrn Loghain. This is a place of the Maker's peace, and none shall disturb it."

The voice was a deep, sonorous intonation that seemed to come from everywhere at once, and Loghain's apprehension grew deeper as he searched the chamber for the invisible threat. Why hadn't Leliana warned him about this 'guardian' – did he have to defeat it in battle, was that it? His hand was still resting on his blade when a figure, shrouded in shadows, moved towards the dais from the dim reaches of the chamber.

"Still you stubbornly cling to your pride and your belligerence, even in the presence of the Maker's Most Holy." A stern-faced man of undeniably martial bearing, wearing ancient armor that Loghain had seen only in images from ages past, stood before him, brows furrowed. "Is that what drove you down ever darker paths, even once you realized your actions were leading your country to war and ruin? Your obstinate refusal to admit that you acted in error? How many are dead, how many maimed and suffering, because Loghain Mac Tir's pride could not allow that he had been wrong?"

"How did you –" His face burned with anger – what was the meaning of this? How did this mysterious 'guardian' even know who he was, or anything about him? A sudden thought occurred to him, and he offered the warrior a satisfied grimace. "Ah. I see through your parlor tricks, 'guardian.' Leliana must have mentioned me, is that it? The traitorous teyrn who poisoned Arl Eamon and sent the Grey Wardens off on a quest for the ashes?" _Or Moira_ , his mind absently supplied – and he felt a renewed surge of shame at the trials he had subjected Moira to, for so long.

Leliana shook her head slowly. "No one in our party spoke of you, but all of us had similar encounters with the Guardian," she explained. "I told you: he can look into your heart, and sense your regrets."

"And yours are too innumerable to count, are they not?" the Guardian continued. "It is regret that led you here, after all, not faith. You spent months hounding and hunting Moira Cousland, falsely persecuting her for the crimes you committed, until she befell the fate that should have, by all rights, been yours. Tell me, Loghain, what you regret more: that you failed Ferelden, or that you failed Moira Cousland?"

Face burning, Loghain glowered at the armored man, who stood there as impassively as a statue. "They are one and the same," he grated. "In failing Moira, I failed Ferelden. And in failing Ferelden, I failed Moira. What more do you want of me, spirit? Tears? An apology? Shall I don sackcloth and ashes and crawl on my knees to perform the duty of penance? I would do all of those things if I thought it would repair any of the harm I have done to my country, or if it would return Moira to me."

The Guardian stared at him for a span, and Loghain's mind roiled, regret tumbling over regret as the magnitude of his failings crashed over him like waves breaking against a shore. Moira's refusal to condemn him as a villain had gradually allowed him to lower his walls and admit to her that he had made some mistakes, but always, even after they had become intimate, he'd retained a measure of defensive self-justification for his actions after Ostagar. Now, however, as the eyes of the mysterious Guardian bore into him, he saw the past year as through a glass darkly, but this time stripped of the distorted lens through which he'd been able to justify his decisions.

* * *

A world-weary general stood at the head of a massive army, stomach filling with bile at the intolerable thought of his callow, stupid son-in-law leading Ferelden's army straight into certain doom. A growing rage slowly fulminated as he waited for the delayed signal from the Grey Wardens – led by their _Orlesian_ commander. The entire plan had been a cock-up from the get-go, and he had spent the better part of a week arguing as such to Cailan, to no avail. King Cailan wanted to be a great hero, and he'd decided that this was his chance – to charge into battle beside the Grey Wardens of legend, slaying the monsters and winning the day. The men who'd ridden into battle beside Cailan were as good as dead – Loghain had known that from the moment the boy had insisted on leading a frontal charge right into the darkspawn ranks. If Loghain followed the signal and joined the battle, it would destroy the entirety of Ferelden's army – unless _he_ put an end to Cailan's disastrous reign and the treachery of the Grey Wardens. And so, when the signal flared, he'd ordered the army to retreat – better to save some of the army than to allow them all to die for Cailan's vanity.

In Denerim, he'd known that the decision to retreat would meet with great resistance from the nobility. Never mind that most of them had never held a sword in their sad, sorry lives, and couldn't tell a blade from a hilt – they had never liked him, never trusted him, and never accepted him as anything more than a commoner who'd gotten too uppity and forgotten his place. He would have to tell them what they wanted to hear – that Cailan had been betrayed by the Orlesian Grey Wardens, who had deliberately delayed lighting the signal at Ostagar until the battle had been lost. Perhaps then the fools would wake up to the Orlesian threat that lurked, ever present, just beyond the border – the massed invasion force of chevaliers that Cailan had very nearly invited in with open arms. Not all the Wardens were Orlesian, but that hardly merited concern. The nobility would believe him; or at least, they would argue about it long enough for him to consolidate Ferelden's forces, defend the border, and then take the time to train and equip a _proper_ army to defeat the darkspawn. He would have to take over the day to day decision making from Anora, for the time being – certainly he knew that she was a competent queen, and had been the only good thing about Cailan's reign, but she was no military strategist. A brief regency until the threat was defeated: that was all he needed. It would be the best thing for Ferelden.

When Arl Rendon Howe had approached him, full of somber remorse for his necessary actions at Highever, Loghain had been suspicious – at least, until Howe had presented him with a series of letters that indicated that Teyrn Bryce Cousland had been deeply engaged in a conspiracy to hand over the Fereldan throne to Empress Celene of Orlais. He had discovered the conspiracy some weeks ago, Howe had sadly intoned, and had only just found the opportunity to confront Cousland about it, but then the teyrn had become violent – and Howe had been forced to kill him. Upon discovering that their lord had been murdered, the soldiers of Highever had attacked, and Howe had been forced to defend himself. It was truly regrettable, Howe had sighed, that such an ancient and esteemed Fereldan family had become so rotten with treachery, but he had been lucky to escape with his life – and doubly fortunate that he'd rooted out such treason before it had had a chance to truly flourish. He knew Loghain would understand – Loghain had been the only noble to ever truly understand the depths of the Orlesian threat. He begged forgiveness for the unpleasantness of the massacre, but, given that the only surviving Cousland had recently joined the Grey Wardens who had betrayed Cailan at Ostagar, requested that he be given provisional authority over the teyrnir of Highever, at least until a suitable replacement could be found. Howe had also offered his fealty to Loghain's regency, and sworn the use of his lands and soldiers to defend against the Orlesian invasion. Loghain had furrowed his brows – something about the whole situation seemed too convenient, too opportune – but the story had all fit, and he accepted Howe's alliance. It would only be temporary, he told himself. Anora would look into the events of Highever once the threat had been dealt with. But for now, he needed Howe, needed his soldiers, needed his gold. Increasingly, he found himself needing his advice.

First had been the suggestion that he hire the Antivan Crows to kill Moira Cousland. Loghain had had doubts – he did not like involving foreign agents in Fereldan business – but Howe had been so smoothly persuasive, and eventually Loghain had relented. Then had come the meeting with Howe's "Tevinter contact," who had offered to discreetly supply the royal coffers with vast riches in exchange for a contract allowing him to hand pick elves from Denerim's alienage to be taken into bondage in Tevinter. It would be for the best, Howe had urged. The alienage had been rocked by riots in the wake of the unfortunate Vaughn Kendall business, and the city guard was one bad day away from a brutal crackdown. The agreement would quell the unrest in the alienage, and the elves themselves would have better lives, living in some magister's palace in Tevinter, thousands of miles away from the Blight.

It had seemed wrong to him, at the time – if the idea of giving the Antivan Crows free reign to operate in Ferelden did not appeal, the notion of allowing Tevinter magisters to abduct Fereldan elves from their homes was even more inimical. But Howe's argument had possessed a compelling logic, and the amount of gold that would be generated, the magister assured, would be grand indeed. In the end, he had been swayed, and when Howe had insisted that it be his seal which would be required to finalize the contract, he had not objected. He'd pressed his ring into the hot wax, the sigil of the Teyrn of Gwaren binding the agreement, and the magister had merely smiled, nodded, and left.

Then had come Anora's concerns – she had confronted him, one day, about his actions. She had demanded to know what had really happened at Ostagar, and why he was setting Fereldan soldiers against their fellow countrymen instead of the darkspawn, and what exactly was happening in the alienage, but he had rebuffed her. Why couldn't she understand that he was doing what he had to do to keep the country safe? Dark times required difficult decisions. She would have to learn that if she were going to be the sole ruler. She could not allow her judgment to be clouded. Clarity of mind was required. A leader could not be swayed by false compassion. He could tell that she hadn't understood. Perhaps she would, in time.

The next day, Howe had come to him, his face creased in concern. Anora had confronted him and accused him of manipulating her father. It was obvious, Howe had explained, that the agents of the Grey Wardens, or perhaps even of Empress Celene, had gotten to her and were poisoning her mind. She would be their primary target, of course. For her safety, Howe had deemed it prudent to confine her to his estate in Denerim. There, she would be kept away from danger, safe from those who wished her harm. Loghain had agreed. She had to be kept safe at any cost, away from the Grey Warden agents who would harm her just to draw him out. She did not understand the full magnitude of the threat, but he did. When Howe was killed and Anora vanished, he'd feared the worst – his little girl, his baby, dead at the Grey Warden's hands. The traitors had murdered her at last. His heart had twisted further in bitterness and hate, and he'd resolved that, come what may, they would not prevail over him at the Landsmeet. They could not.

Then had come the Landsmeet, and the swirl of arguments and condemnations – how he'd tried to convince the blind fools that he knew what was best for Ferelden! And then Moira Cousland had come to confront him at last. She exposed Arl Howe's villainy and treachery, and his certainty had wavered – but it hardly mattered. Even if Howe had been a turncoat and a traitor, it did not change the greater situation – Orlais would surely take advantage of the disaster at Ostagar and the Blight to make its move, and none of the damned idiots could see what was right before their noses! But Moira convinced the nobles that the Blight, not Orlais, was the greater threat, and then there had been only one honorable course of action left to him – a trial by combat. He had thought it would be an easy fight – a young whelp, Grey Warden or no, could hardly hold a candle to his years of battlefield experience. But young Moira Cousland had grown into a redoubtable warrior in her time as a Grey Warden, and as he battled her, he saw in her a strength and determination that he had not seen in so very long – not since he'd fought alongside Maric. He knew then that he could no longer stand against her, even though he still possessed the ability to fight on, perhaps even to kill her. But he'd been wrong about her. She was strong, and just, and she had never betrayed Ferelden. He would not stand in her way. He would surrender, and accept his fate, come what may.

* * *

The remembrances of the past year crashed down on him as he stood there for what seemed like hours, the penetrating gaze of the Guardian his only anchor to the present amidst a sea of memories. How could he have been so _blind_? Even if his decision at Ostagar had been the right one, how could he have allowed everything afterwards to go so wrong? How could he have ever trusted Howe? He had been both arrogant and credulous, prideful and foolish, and what had he accomplished? A civil war that had torn his country apart, when those who'd doubted his account of Ostagar had refused to pledge to him their fealty. The unforgivable crime of allowing foreign slavers to steal Fereldan citizens out of their own homes, to be spirited away to an unknown fate in a land of power-hungry blood mages. The persecution of Moira Cousland, who had been, in all things, his opposite – compassionate where he had been merciless, humble where he had been vain, peaceful where he had been brutal. Worst of all, if he had succeeded in killing her, he would have doomed Ferelden to a certain death at the maw of the darkspawn horde. His homeland, his beloved country, would have become an uninhabitable wasteland, devoured and destroyed, its people and history and culture a rapidly receding memory. He had nearly destroyed everything, and yet, even knowing the extent of his crimes, Moira had loved him anyway. His heart tightened in grief, and his regrets threatened to overwhelm him. Surely he was unworthy to be in the presence of Andraste – let Leliana go in his stead. She was a holy woman, a Chantry sister. She had already proven herself worthy. He was as unworthy as a man could possibly be.

"You have passed the test. Go, in the Light of the Maker." With a slow nod, the Guardian turned aside, revealing a passageway out of the chamber and further into the temple.

Loghain gaped in disbelief, his muscles trembling with the aftershocks of the memories that had just assaulted him.

"Why didn't you warn me?" He rounded on Leliana, rattled. "Did you enjoy witnessing my disgrace?"

"No," she said, nonplussed. "I truly believe that you deserve the chance to do your part to save Moira. We all have regrets, Loghain. You are not alone in confronting the demons of your past." There was something uncompromising in her quiet voice that stilled his agitation. He retreated back into his troubled memories as he followed her through the door and into the temple proper.

The temple had clearly been grand once, though centuries of disuse had crumbled its mighty pillars and dulled the once-gleaming marble statues. Loghain followed Leliana through winding, narrow passages, unable to shake away the guilt that dogged him in the wake of the Guardian's pointed inquisition. And yet, despite his remorse, the peace he'd sensed upon his arrival in the temple soothed and consoled him. They entered a statuary hall containing lifelike representations of Andraste's disciples, and Loghain felt a wave of shame anew as he contemplated the statue of Maferath the Betrayer, who had forsaken his wife, the Maker's Beloved, for the sake of his own jealous and petty heart. Had what he had done to Moira been any better?

Before they exited the statuary hall, Leliana turned to regard him with a solemn expression. "Be wary," she said. "We must enter the next chamber one at a time. What you see in there will be yours alone. I cannot follow until you have passed through the other side. It will not harm you physically, but you may be confronted with a vision that will be unsettling to you." He could tell, from her tone, that she spoke from remembered experience.

Heaving a sigh, Loghain smothered the urge to retort with a sarcastic quip – hadn't he already rounded on her for _not_ warning him about the Guardian? She was only doing as he'd requested, and besides, it was hardly Leliana's fault that he had so many painful memories. If this was the price he had to pay to help Moira, he would gladly spend eternity here, reliving all of his sins for time immemorial. Squaring his shoulders, he entered through the doors, his resolve bolstered by thoughts of Moira.

The sight of King Maric standing before him, as proud and regal as he'd ever been in life, was nearly enough to undo him.

"Hello, old friend," Maric said quietly. "It's been a long time."

Loghain stared incredulously, his heart hammering a raucous tattoo in his chest. "Maric? How…?" He was _dead_. Maric was dead – wasn't he? Or perhaps he hadn't died at sea, and had only now been able to return, furious that Loghain had abandoned his search. No – this was a vision. That was what Leliana had said. Another spectre come to haunt him, to remind him of his past failures. A heady remorse filled him, and he took a hesitant, apprehensive step towards his old friend, unsure if he should embrace him or fall to his knees and beg forgiveness.

"I'm not _really_ here, if that's what you're asking," Maric replied wryly. "Well, I mean, I'm _really_ here, but _I'm_ not really here. If that makes any sense, which it probably doesn't. Suffice to say that I'm here because you believe we have unresolved business. And I suppose we do, at that." Well – whatever it was certainly _sounded_ like Maric, all right. And it undeniably looked like him, as he'd appeared in his final years – older, wiser, but still every bit the handsome, yellow-haired man of fine features and noble bearing who'd been the heroic liberator of Ferelden. Loghain's innards twisted in shame, and he was reminded ever more forcefully of his own disastrous regency, which had threatened to unravel everything he and Maric had accomplished.

"Maric, I – " How could he even begin to say what needed to be said? Could any apology ever suffice? "I failed you," he finally managed, the words slipping numbly past dry, cracked lips.

Maric arched an aristocratic eyebrow. "In what way?" Loghain knew from long experience that Maric's guileless tone was a ruse – the king had always enjoyed playing the naïf and allowing those who underestimated him to reveal far more than they might have otherwise. Did he want Loghain to enumerate his sins? Where to even begin?

"In what way did I not?" Loghain spluttered. "I took Ferelden to the brink of destruction. I persecuted a good and innocent woman because she was the only person in the entire country who had the power to stop me. I accused her of being an Orlesian agent and sent assassins after her. I allowed Tevinter slavers to trade in Fereldan citizens. I allied myself with a despicable man who murdered and tortured his way to power. What haven't I done?" He bowed his head, unable to look the ghost of his old friend in the eye. "I thought I was finishing the work we'd begun – to keep Ferelden safe from Orlais. Instead, I brought her to the brink of ruin. How can you even stand to look at me?"

"Where is the man who once taught me how to shoulder the burdens of command?" Maric chided. "Were you not always scolding me to stiffen my spine and make the hard decisions that needed to be made? Did you not tell me, over and over, that the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few? Do you no longer believe your own words?"

"I – that was different!" Loghain retorted, dismayed by Maric's refusal to accept his remorse. "There was no doubt we were fighting the right enemy then. I fought the wrong enemy during the Blight, and it nearly cost us everything. All of my hard choices were the wrong ones. How can I defend that?"

"And yet, you still believe that sacrificing my son was the right decision, even today, don't you?" Maric's voice had gone quiet, and he regarded Loghain with keen eyes. "It is the one decision during your regency for which you have offered no apology. So I'll ask you: do you believe that you were right to abandon Cailan to his death?"

Loghain was struck silent, and as he regarded his friend, he saw not only a noble king, but a grieving father. In all of his frustration and anger with Cailan, he'd allowed himself to forget who the boy was: the only son of his best friends. Cailan had always seemed to be a pale shadow of his parents, possessing neither Maric's intelligence nor Rowan's strength. Loghain had attempted countless times to educate the boy about the responsibilities of leadership, only to be disappointed when Cailan proved impervious to instruction. As the years went on and the crown passed from Maric to his son, Cailan proved to be not merely a vainglorious and ineffectual king, but also an unfaithful and inattentive husband to Anora, and Loghain's resentment continued to build. At Ostagar, the pot that had long been simmering at last boiled over. He felt no remorse for abandoning Cailan on the battlefield, not that day or any day since. He saw now that he'd allowed himself to forget who Cailan was. Not the king – that made no difference to him. A stupid king was a liability, and besides, no king's life was worth more than his country's safety. Maric, of all people, had taught him that. No, he did not regret abandoning the king. But he found, as he met Maric's melancholy gaze, that he did, at last, regret abandoning his friends' only son.

"Yes," he said quietly. "If I had to make the decision over again, I would make the same one, even today. But I failed Cailan long before Ostagar, and in doing so, I failed you and Rowan. I should have tried harder with the boy. I should not have abandoned him to his delusions of grandeur. I owed it to Anora, and to you. I failed your son, Maric, and I am sorry."

Maric stared at him for a long time, and he began to wonder whether he had failed this particular test. He knew that this Maric wasn't _really_ Maric, and yet the pain of seeing his friend's face as he confessed his multitude of sins weighed him down with shame.

"If you failed him, then your failure was no greater than mine," Maric said quietly. "Cailan was my son. If you abandoned him, then know that I abandoned him first." _After Rowan died_. The weighty truth hung heavily in the air, unspoken but silently acknowledged. Maric had retreated deep into himself after the queen's death, throwing himself wholly into statecraft with a passion that Loghain had never truly expected of his oftentimes feckless friend. He'd also become something of an adventurer, haring off on quests near and far, nearly getting himself killed more often than not in the process. All the while, Cailan had remained in Denerim, raised by his nursemaids, and Loghain had not checked in on the boy nearly as often as he should have. Was it any wonder that he'd grown to manhood without ever truly knowing what it meant to be a king?

"That doesn't absolve me of my sins," Loghain said. "We both failed Cailan, but my failure is not mitigated by yours. He was your _son_ , Maric! He was Rowan's son! I loved you both, but I could find no love in my heart for your boy."

"You realize that you've done wrong," Maric said. "The question is: what do you plan to do about it? Feel sorry for yourself for the rest of your life? Forswear any good you might do in the future out of a misguided sense of penance? That's not the Loghain I always knew. The man I knew would pick himself up, dust himself off, and get back to business. You may not believe it, but Ferelden needs you. Your woman needs you." Loghain's blood quickened at Maric's reference to Moira. "You serve neither of them by wallowing in self-pity and recriminations. You made mistakes – many of them, perhaps. You know what you did wrong. Now go and make things right."

Then – just like that – Maric was gone, vanished into the ether, as though he'd never been there at all.

Loghain stared for what seemed like hours at the empty space where Maric had stood, and felt a keen sense of loss all over again. Blinking away the motes of dust that had suddenly collected in his eyes, he was possessed of an urgent need to depart the room, to leave behind the reminders of his dead and gone friend. He strode with single-minded purpose until he pushed through the doors at the far side of the chamber and emerged into a long, narrow corridor, marked by a solitary door at the opposite end. Heaving a shuddering sigh of relief, he leaned against the cool stone wall of the temple, closing his eyes against the onslaught of emotions that assaulted him. He'd thought he'd reckoned with his guilt when he had joined Moira as a Grey Warden, but none of his introspection had prepared him for the raw agony that wracked him as he looked on his failures with clear and open eyes. His chaotic thoughts returned again to his moment of surrender at the Landsmeet. Had he prevailed, he would have had Moira executed without a moment's hesitation. Again he marveled at her remarkable capacity for mercy – to have borne witness to every despicable thing he'd done, and yet still find it in her heart to see in him something more than a monster or a traitor. Angrily, he swiped at his eyes, willing away the violent surge of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. He could live for a hundred ages and never hope to be worthy of her. Maric had told him to go and 'make it right,' and being here, retrieving the ashes of Andraste for Moira, was as good as place as any to start, he supposed.

"I'm so sorry, Moira," he murmured into the darkness. "Maker… I suppose I hardly have any business addressing you, but if anyone deserves your mercy, it is she. Please let these ashes heal her. I will spend the rest of my life becoming the man she saw in me that day in the Landsmeet chamber. I swear it to you."

When Leliana emerged from the chamber some time later – he could not have said if it had been minutes or hours – their eyes met in the darkness, and, by silent agreement, neither spoke of what they had seen.

"Come," she said, voice subdued. "The final test is through the next chamber. Erm… but you aren't going to like it." Her face flushed in the dim light, and Loghain wondered what could possibly cause her such visible discomfort after the wringer the temple had already put them through.

"I've hardly _liked_ any of these 'tests,' Leliana. I cannot imagine what could be worse than having all my sins laid bare by the ghosts of my past," he grumbled, following her to the doors. As she pushed them open, an oppressive wave of heat assaulted him, and he coughed as the dry, hot air seared his lungs.

A massive wall of flame filled the next chamber, thoroughly impeding any forward movement. Loghain arched a wry eyebrow.

"Ah. Yes, I suppose the prospect of immolation is rather unappealing. I gather there must be some secret method we may employ to avoid being burned alive?"

Leliana nodded sagely, and, to Loghain's horror, began to loosen the straps of her armor.

"Maker! What in Andraste's name are you doing?" he exclaimed as she shimmied out of her cuirass, leaving her clad only in her loose undershirt. Loghain hastily averted his eyes. Maker, what if there was some bizarre sexual ritual they needed to complete to obtain the ashes? Was that why Leliana had invited him along?

"It is a test of faith," Leliana replied, utterly unfazed by her own dishabille as she continued removing her armor. "We must free ourselves of any burdens and lay down our arms. The Maker will be our shield, just as it is spoken in the Chant." He heard her pause hesitantly, and imagined she was regarding him with that damnably whimsical expression she sometimes adopted – but he'd never know for certain, as he was studiously refusing to look at her.

"That means you have to get naked, Loghain." Yes, her voice was just full to the brim of whimsy. Damn her, she was actually _enjoying_ this. "Don't worry – I won't peek. Although I doubt Moira would mind," she added playfully.

"She most certainly would!" he harrumphed, and, looking down at his traveling armor with dismay, began to slowly unbuckle the clasps. "At any rate, _I_ most certainly do, so keep your eyes to yourself." He heard a delicate giggle as he finished removing his armor, and, suppressing a snarl of annoyance, focused on keeping his eyes straight ahead. Impertinent Orlesian.

Ready at last, he stared at the wall of flame, which burned as bright and hot as any blaze he'd ever encountered, and his sense of alarm prickled as he approached. Every sense in his body screamed at him to stop, that to progress any further was suicidal madness, until his feet ceased moving of their own volition, unwilling to lead his body into the furnace of certain destruction. He took a deep breath to steel himself, the scorching air blistering his lungs.

_Maker, if you have any love for Moira, let me pass through unscathed. It is for her I seek the ashes. If you find me unworthy, then I pray you know that she is far worthier than I._ Calling upon every ounce of his willpower, he forced himself forward into the inferno.

Searing heat prompted the panicked realization that his skin should be bubbling, melting away from his bones, but the pain never came. As his feet carried him forward, the heat disappeared, and a soft breeze of cool, pleasant air whispered across his skin. When he finally opened his eyes, closed instinctively against his certain doom, he saw that he stood before a simple altar, behind which stood a graceful statue of Andraste, hands raised in welcoming benediction. Unlike the statues in the hall, this sculpture bore no evidence of the slow passage of ages – the marble was as clean, and the features as precise, as the day it had been carved.

Loghain had never been an overly pious man, but his heart thudded against his ribs as he observed the simple, nondescript urn that graced the altar. He turned behind him – his clothes were only a few paces behind, the wall of flame having disappeared as soon as he'd crossed the threshold. He quickly reassembled his armor, feeling an awkward sense of modesty as he approached the urn with deliberation and reverence.

There they were – the Ashes of Andraste. Loghain held his breath, afraid to exhale, afraid to do anything that might displace or disturb such a sacred relic. The merest pinch would do, Leliana had explained – the power of the ashes was in the source, not the quantity. Hands trembling, he removed the small pouch that he had kept at his belt for exactly this purpose, and, with gloved fingers, removed exactly a pinch from the urn. Quickly he brought his hand to the pouch and tied it as tight as he'd ever secured any knot in his life – it contained the most precious cargo in Thedas.

Releasing his breath in a ragged sigh, he replaced the pouch at his belt and stood for a space, contemplating the ashes. He supposed he should say something, offer up a prayer in this most sacred of holy places, but no words came to mind that could possibly do justice. It was fitting, perhaps – he'd never been much of a man for speeches, anyway. And so he simply bowed his head in gracious acknowledgment of the gift he'd been given.

"Thank you," he said.

A thin shaft of light shone from beneath a heavy stone door discreetly tucked into a corner of the chamber – an exit, one that presumably led to a path back the primary temple, where they could return to Haven. And from there, Denerim.

"Loghain?" Leliana's voice, hushed with reverence, intruded into his reverie. He turned to the Orlesian, and was surprised to find that any annoyance he'd felt for her had melted away, replaced by a warm affection. Her gentle, open faith – in the Maker, in Moira, and even in him – had given him his only chance to save the most precious thing in all the world. He would never forget what she had done.

"I would like to spend a few moments in contemplation of Our Lady, if you do not mind," she said. "I never thought I would be in Her presence again."

After all she had done for him, how could he object if she wanted to spend a few minutes in prayer? "Of course," he said. "I will wait outside. Leliana," he added, fixing her with a poignant look. "Thank you. For everything."

She blushed, as if his praise was unexpected. Well, he reflected ruefully, it probably was.

"Of course." Closing her eyes, she knelt before the altar, and Loghain excused himself, pushing open the portal and stepping out into the blinding glare of the snow-covered Frostbacks.

The chill air was a welcome change from the stuffy environs of the temple, at least for now – he knew he would grow quite weary of it before they descended the mountain, but for the moment, he would enjoy the sun, the wind, the snow, and the beauty of the Maker's creation all around him. His heart, though still weighted with the guilt of his numerous sins, was buoyant with joy and anticipation. All the pain and sorrow would be worth it if it meant Moira would be well again.

_I'm coming, my love. Soon._

* * *

Leliana knelt before the urn, head bowed and hands clasped. A soul-deep serenity flowed through her like the eddying currents of a gentle, life-giving stream, and she could feel moisture on her face from the tears that escaped unbidden from the corners of her eyes.

She knew bringing Loghain had been the right thing to do. She had hoped that sharing such a profound experience of the Maker's grace would tear down the walls that the taciturn general had spent so long building around his heart. She knew he loved Moira and was loved by her in turn, and in that love, Leliana knew that he could find redemption. She could not help but find a parcel of amusement in his profound remorse, however; how very typical of Loghain to assess his sins and believe them to be the worst of all men's, as though no one else could possibly understand what it was to feel regret or shame.

She certainly understood.

"Holy Andraste," she whispered, opening her eyes to regard the Lady's statute in veneration. "Hear my prayer. Grant me the courage to continue along the path You have shown me. Guide me according to Your will, and let my actions reflect upon Your glory."

Leliana shifted, her knees aching on the hard flagstone of the chamber, and her eyes fluttered closed as she raised her hands in supplication. She opened her lips, words of reverence ready at her lips –

A sudden spike of vertigo sent her swooning, and she collapsed backwards, landing heavily on her back, the abrupt thud of the stone floor driving the air from her lungs. Her eyes shot open in alarm, and she opened her mouth to scream for Loghain, when –

_She was still in the Temple, but no longer alone. A woman, held against her will, writhed in midair, held captive by the foul magic of a circle of mages. She wore holy vestments, and though she struggled, there was no violence in her actions, no attempt to harm those who restrained her. Her face was clouded by brightest light, but an undeniable aura of holiness surrounded her. The mages held her suspended above the altar, as if preparing her for sacrifice. The urn was nowhere to be seen._

_"Now is the hour of our victory," a sonorous voice intoned from somewhere in the shadows._

_"Why are you doing this?" the holy woman cried out to her captors. "You, of all people?"_

_"Keep the sacrifice still!" the harsh voice demanded. One of the mages turned to regard his master, and the griffon sigil of the Grey Wardens was clearly visible on the pauldrons of his robes._

_"Someone help me!" the woman cried, pleading for mercy. A tall figure, swathed in rotting, torn robes, emerged from the shadows, and it wore the face of a nightmare. In its gnarled hand it clutched a orb, pulsing with a sinister green glow. It approached the woman, and the green haze emitted by the orb began to undulate faster, as if feeding on the life essence of the trapped woman. The mages kept her pinned in place, the sacrifice prepared, as the monster drew the orb flush with her chest –_

Leliana's eyes flew open as she cried out in alarm, and she heaved a ragged, gasping breath, scrambling to her feet. She had reached for her blade instinctively, but her hand stilled against the sheath when she saw that she was again alone in the temple. The chamber was quiet and peaceful, and Andraste's kindly gaze fell upon her in placid benediction. The urn was there, undisturbed.

Leliana's heart hammered in her chest. Another vision – this one far more real than the last. It had taken place in this chamber, she was certain of it, but what could it mean? Was it a premonition – a revelation of things to come? Or had the Maker sent her a message, leaving it to her to decipher its meaning? A wild anxiety gripped her in stark contrast with the serenity of her surroundings.

A woman – Andraste? – crying out for help. The Grey Warden mages defiling the chamber of the ashes, performing a sinister ritual in service to a dark master – the monstrous figure in robes. Leliana's head spun. Did it mean the Grey Wardens were not to be trusted? The ashes were gone, in her vision – was that why she'd seen the Wardens harming the holy woman? Did they intend to destroy the ashes, and with them, Andraste? But why? Why would the Grey Wardens desecrate a holy place?

Leliana's mind reeled with the implications of what she had seen. She was not a fool – she knew that no one, perhaps not even Moira, truly believed she'd had a vision in Lothering, but she had. She was not mad, or delusional, no matter what anyone else thought. The Maker had sent her a sign, and she had listened. She took a steadying breath and allowed the tranquility of the chamber to soothe her troubled heart. Now, the Maker had entrusted her with another vision, and it was up to her to respond – just as she had done in Lothering.

She knew, then, what she had to do.


	17. From the Ashes

"I don't understand why we're still stuck here in this unbearable little room," Urthemiel pouted, crossing its arms in petulant defiance as it glowered sullenly at Moira. Today, it wore Wynne's face. "I've never had so much trouble with a vessel before. You must be quite the stubborn one to resist for so long. It's admirable, if infuriating."

Moira squeezed her eyes shut tight, wishing for the thousandth time that she had just died as she was meant to have when she'd delivered the final blow. In a way, she shared Urthemiel's frustration: they seemed irretrievably trapped in this small room together, with no discernible way out. There were no doors or windows – she had explored every nook and cranny to no avail. She had even tried attacking the demon directly, her fists raining down blows on Zevran's borrowed face, but it had only laughed at her, laughed and laughed until she'd unleashed a primal scream of rage and shoved it away as hard as she could. She'd wanted to die at that moment, and every moment since. There could be no worse hell than being trapped in her own head with only the Archdemon for company for the rest of eternity.

Often, her thoughts wandered to Loghain. He was surely well – he'd been injured, but conscious, when she'd left him there on the ramparts of Fort Drakon. How long had it been since the final battle? Had he recovered? Did he still think of her? She hoped, with every fiber of her being, that nothing had happened to him since the battle. She knew that he still had many enemies, many survivors of the Blight who would blame him for the poor decisions he'd made during his regency and seek justice. What if they had demanded punishment, even after the Landsmeet? What if Anora had not consolidated enough power to resist them? What if –

No. She would not allow herself to think such things. He was fine – he had to be. He was a strong man, a warrior, and he did not need her to protect him. She hoped that he had not fallen victim to the political chaos in the aftermath of the Blight, and she hoped that he still spared a thought for her every now and then, even if she would never see him again.

The thought filled her with sorrow. Out of all the considerable torments of sharing an eternity with the Archdemon, the prospect of never seeing the man she loved again was among the worst. If her soul had been obliterated by the final blow as she'd expected, at least she would simply be gone. A terrible fate, to be sure, but one that prohibited loneliness. Perhaps the Wardens were wrong about the fates of their comrades who slew Archdemons. Perhaps they'd been too optimistic.

"Hello?" 'Wynne' snapped her fingers in Moira's direction. "Ugh, you've retreated into one of those fugue states again, staring at the wall. It's so _boring_ when you're like that. This isn't fun for me either, you know. One moment I was on top of the world, leading my army to victory, and the next, I'm trapped in this tiny little bedroom with the dullest Grey Warden history has ever known. You could at least attempt to hold up your end of the conversation."

The other worst thing about her unending purgatory: she happened to be stuck with what had to be the Maker-forsaken _chattiest_ Old God in the entire cursed pantheon.

Something it said, however, had piqued her interest. She loathed indulging the monster, but she had to admit that ignoring it had hardly been effective thus far. "What do you know about the Grey Wardens? Weren't you buried in the Deep Roads until rather recently?" She glared at it from across the room.

It smiled in response, twisting Wynne's beatific features into a wry mockery of their owner's benevolence. "Oh, you silly thing. You think we don't know as much about you as you do about us? Why do you think I sent all my minions after you time after time, if I did not understand the nature of the threat you posed? I admit, I rather didn't think your victory over me would lead to being trapped in this odd little dream. I'd much rather you'd just killed me and been done with it."

Moira scoffed, hugging her arms around her knees where she sat, curled up tight, on the bed.

"Well, that makes two of us, then." So the Archdemon didn't know any more than she did about why the final blow had not killed either of them. She recalled it saying something about being 'diminished,' upon their arrival in this strange place, but her horror at being trapped in a state of altered consciousness with the Archdemon had been so complete that she hadn't really taken the time to reflect on what that might actually mean. Had she only managed to injure the Archdemon, and not kill it entirely? Did that mean that the Blight wasn't truly over? It had just said something about having trouble with a 'vessel.' Was it still trying to possess her, but was just too weak – hence why they were trapped in this place?

"Tell me," she demanded. "What are you – truly? What were you before the Blight took you?"

The demon wearing Wynne's face smiled. Coming from Wynne, the expression would have been kindly, grandmotherly; but knowing that Urthemiel lurked beneath the mask lent a layer of menace to the otherwise benign grin.

"Well, now," it said, steepling Wynne's fingers. "That is quite the question indeed. How to begin?"

Moira unfurled herself, stretching as her interest piqued in spite of everything. She hated this thing – hated what it had been, and what it continued to be – but she found herself curious to hear what the demon had to say for itself about the history of the Blight. She could almost, in this moment, understand Morrigan's impulse to spare the Old God's soul, though she still found the notion dangerous and full of folly. But since she had no way out of her purgatory, might she not discover the ancient secrets that the marsh witch had sought?

She opened her mouth, ready to ask another question, when a strange tugging sensation gripped at her insides, as though an invisible fist were attempting to pull her innards out through her skin. It was not painful, exactly, but it was certainly not comfortable, either; it was almost as if she were being unraveled, as though a string was being pulled slowly but steadily from her body. She looked down in alarm, and at first saw nothing; but then she spotted a dark, coiling tendril snaking out of her body, leeching from her skin and curling around her like a miasma of smoke. It smelled and felt _wrong_ ; noxious, sinister, evil. She gasped in alarm as the tugging sensation intensified, and the black wisps continued to flow from her, seeping from her pores. A whispered song filled the air around her, its dark melody both enchanting and malevolent. She could smell and taste the blackness, and it bore the flavor of rotten blood and the scent of death.

She stared in horror at the gathering tendrils, but just as the feeling of being pulled apart from within had nearly become unbearable, she felt a sharp pang of separation, as of a thread tearing loose, and the black smoke ripped free from her body, coalescing in a sinister haze just above her head.

"What is happening?" Wynne's voice was shrill and carried an unmistakable tone of alarm. "What is this?"

Moira gasped raggedly as she once again became aware of her body, trembling wildly in the wake of the strange assault. She felt different, changed; her body and soul felt purer, as though the black miasma had been a slow-acting venom drawn from her blood. It hovered motionless and heavy in the air for a moment, and then began to dissipate.

"No!" Wynne's voice cried out in alarm, and Moira looked up to see the mage – no, the _demon_ – clawing desperately at its face, eyes stricken with terror and pain. "How can this be happening –I survived the Warden's blow! I survived – no!" A blinding white light filled the room, and Moira had to close her eyes against the glare.

The light surrounded her, suffusing her with warmth. The black tendrils had been uncomfortable as they'd unspooled from her body, like she was being pulled apart at the seams; but now she felt remade, her wounds mended, her very soul surrounded by a gentle and comforting embrace. It was the most peaceful sensation she'd ever experienced; as though she were reaching out to take the hand of the Maker.

"No! No!"

The Archdemon's screams grew distant and hollow, and soon Moira could no longer hear them through the aura of serenity that surrounded her. She felt full of grace, brimming over like a vase overflowing with cool, clear water. She opened her eyes, and could see only that the black tendrils were gone, replaced by the brightest light –

* * *

Her eyes snapped open, and she blinked furiously, the afterimage of the intense radiance casting a green-gold pall across her vision. She took a deep, shuddering breath, as if she'd been drowning and had just broken above the waves. She felt her heart hammering against her ribs as the afterglow of the light faded and her eyes focused on the pattern above her. A rich gold and burgundy pattern, in the traditional Fereldan style. Where –

"Moira."

A familiar voice cut through her confusion, and then, slowly advancing into her field of vision was the face of the man she'd feared she would never see again, his blue eyes burning with undisguised emotion, his long black hair falling down about his shoulders, save for two neat little braids tied at his temples.

"Loghain?" Her lover's name came out in a cracked whisper, her voice rusty from disuse. She blinked, her eyes still unused to the dim light in the room – was this real? Or another of the Archdemon's tricks? Was she alive – or was Loghain dead, and this was somewhere else?

Her muddled thoughts were abruptly interrupted when Loghain embraced her, wrapping her in his arms and squeezing her so tight she thought she might burst. "Oh, Maker, Moira," he whispered, voice rough with emotion. "I feared you were lost to me forever." He squeezed her again, and the pressure of his arms tightening around her, the feel of his skin, the smell of his hair – it was all too real. Which meant that this was real, and she was alive, and – her heart leapt in sudden joy – so was Loghain.

"Loghain," she whispered fiercely, burying her face into his neck. Being in his arms was like coming home, and her body tensed and trembled, her soul filled to bursting with sublime bliss. She pulled away from his embrace and gazed deep into his pale blue eyes. She felt a river of hot moisture slide down her cheeks and knew she was weeping, but she did not care. She was alive, and Loghain was here, with her.

"Truly the Maker is gracious," he breathed, cupping her face gently in his large hands. A callused thumb moved across her cheek and brushed away an errant tear.

"I don't know what happened," she whispered, her hand moving to cover his as he caressed her face. "I didn't think I'd survive the final blow. And then… it was awful, that _thing_ was with me! It is dead, isn't it? The Archdemon is dead?"

He closed his eyes and leaned in until his forehead rested against hers, the simple intimacy of the act reassuring her more than his words could do. "Yes, it is dead. The Blight is over." His hands slipped into her thick hair, fingers tangling into the waves. "When I saw you take the final blow, I thought you were – " His voice cracked, and he took a shuddering breath. "Even after, when I knew you'd survived, I wasn't certain you'd ever wake." His voice trailed off, and she wrapped her arms around the broad expanse of his back, pulling him close and reveling in the feel of his strong, masculine body pressed against her. What did he mean, he wasn't certain she'd ever wake?

"What happened to me?" she whispered, her face resting against the hard plane of his chest. "The last thing I remember, I was striking the Archdemon with my blade." She looked up at him with a worried expression. "How long has it been? Since the battle?"

Loghain's eyes met hers, his face creased with affection and concern. "Seven weeks," he said. "You're in the royal palace at Denerim. The city has begun to rebuild. It will take time, but time is a luxury Ferelden has, thanks to you."

 _Seven weeks_. She'd been trapped in her own head with the bloody Archdemon for seven Maker-damned weeks. "It was with me," she said, suppressing a shiver. "Or at least, a part of it was. Something of the Archdemon survived the final blow. Perhaps that's why I didn't die? I think it's gone now, though. There was a bright light, and I felt…" Her voice trailed off, as she tried to find the words to describe the sublime sense of peace she'd felt when the light had come and purged the blackness from her body and killed the Archdemon. "I felt like I was being cleansed. Whatever it was killed the Archdemon, and it did something to me, too. I feel different, but I can't say how."

Loghain furrowed his brow. "Different? In what way? Are you well?"

"Yes." She tried to recall the sensation of the light, the strange tugging of the black tendrils seeping from her body. "I feel better than I've felt since…."

A sudden, calamitous thought seized her. "Loghain, can you feel me?"

"Feel you? Of course I can," he frowned.

"No," she said urgently. "In the taint. Can you feel me through the taint?" She concentrated her senses, searching for the familiar buzzing in her blood, the sensation of his life source near her, bound to her through their shared corruption. She could feel her heart hammering, hear her blood pounding through her ears, but she could not focus, could not still the chaotic thoughts that tumbled through her mind. Perhaps she was just disoriented from her long, strange slumber –

"No." His voice was quietly decisive. "I can't sense anything." His eyes widened. "Maker, is it possible?"

"Is what possible?" She dared not voice the hope that dangled just out of reach. "Loghain, what happened? The white light – it was what awakened me, wasn't it?"

"It was all Leliana's idea," he said. There was a strange gleam in his eyes. "She told me of how you cured Arl Eamon from a similar living death. She asked me to accompany her to Haven, and we retrieved the Sacred Ashes of Andraste for you." An abashed look crossed his features. "I admit I was skeptical that such a legend could be true, but I have never been so happy to be wrong."

"The ashes?" Moira breathed. _The Sacred Ashes of Andraste_. She recalled the feeling of serenity that had washed over her as the light gathered her in its embrace, purging the darkness from her spirit and extinguishing the presence of the Archdemon. Had she actually felt Andraste's grace in that moment?

"As I said, it was Leliana's idea," Loghain insisted. "I cannot accept any credit. It was her presence of mind and her steadfast faith that saved you, Moira. Her kindness has shamed me – she insisted I accompany her, even though I'd offered her little more than spite since making her acquaintance, because she knew how much you mean to me." Moved beyond words, she took his hand and squeezed, not trusting herself to speak.

"Then where is Leliana, that I may thank her?" She did not trust herself to speak to him of her feelings for him, not without losing her already fragile hold over her emotions.

"She will return soon," he said enigmatically. His hand gripped hers tightly, and she placed her other hand atop his, stroking the rough skin with intent fingers. It felt so good, so right to feel him again, and her blood pounded through her veins as her body, though still exhausted and disoriented, began to respond to his proximity. Her breath quickened as she continued to caress his hand, and abruptly the realization that she could not feel him through the taint intruded again into her consciousness. Her mind again attempted to push away the ramifications of such a thought, but the persistent notion would not be silenced so quickly this time.

"Loghain," she breathed, daring to look into his eyes. "What if the ashes…"

A knock on the door silenced her, and, with a soft squeeze of her hands, Loghain rose from the bed. "That ought to be Leliana now," he said. "And I believe she's brought someone you'll be very pleased to see."

Moira frowned. "Brought someone? I don't understand –"

Loghain opened the door, and there stood Leliana, her face slowly dawning with elation.

"Moira! Maker be praised!" The red haired bard dashed into the room, and Moira's heart swelled with love and gratitude for her friend. She attempted to rise from the bed, but her head, unaccustomed to gravity after so long, swooned, and she collapsed heavily back down on the mattress with a grunt. Leliana laughed, moving to the bed and wrapping Moira in a tight embrace. Moira hugged Leliana tight, a tear slipping from her eye. When Leliana pulled away, Moira saw that she too had tears in her eyes.

"Thank you," Moira whispered. "For everything. Loghain told me what you did."

"It was my privilege," Leliana said, her voice reverent. "For weeks we wondered if you would wake again, but then the Maker showed me how I might be able to help you. And He was right."

A shadow hovered at the door, and Moira recalled Loghain mentioning that Leliana had brought 'someone she would be very pleased to see.' She couldn't imagine who it might be – Anora? Wynne? The door pushed open further, and Leliana stepped away from the bed, giving Moira a clear view.

Her brother stood in the door, his hand resting on the jamb, look of disbelieving joy spreading across his face.

"Fergus," she breathed. How could this be – Fergus was _dead_! Wasn't he? "How –" But the rest of her question was silenced as her brother rushed to her, his expression wild and joyful. He wrapped her in his arms, and a sob choked from her throat as she clung to her dear, beloved brother, whom she'd long thought dead, now miraculously returned to her.

"Moira," he murmured into her hair, his voice tight with emotion. "I knew you'd be all right. I tried to tell them all that you'd be all right. I know how tough you are, little pup. I knew you'd come back to us." He pulled back to look at her, and she stared wildly into the face of the brother she never thought she'd see again.

He looked changed from when she had last seen him that night at Highever – paler, gaunt, his eyes lined with a crow's nest of creases that shouldn't have graced his face for another decade or more. But he was definitely, indisputably Fergus.

"Where have you been? I wanted to look for you but –" She frowned in remembrance of Alistair and Morrigan's discouragement, their refusal to allow her to search for Fergus in the aftermath of the massacre at Highever. The massacre – Maker, did he know? Surely by now, he did, but what a cruel shock it must have been. Moira felt the familiar twisting of grief and fury in her belly as she thought of what Howe had done to her family.

"Oh, Fergus, that night at Highever – Oren and Oriana! By the time I realized Howe had betrayed us it was too late – I'm so sorry – I wish I had –"

"Hush, Moira." He squeezed her hand in his, and he looked at her, eyes bright with unshed tears. "Don't you dare blame yourself." He sighed heavily, rubbing his free hand roughly across his eyes, and when he looked at her again, his expression was full of fierce pride. "You killed that rat bastard and avenged our family. His name has been disgraced and his lands and title stripped from his heirs, but…" He sighed again. "Then I think of my little Oren, and it hardly seems enough."

"I know," she said quietly. They sat together for a space in silence and shared grief, Leliana and Loghain gracefully making themselves discreet in the opposite corner of the room. "I wish so much I could have saved them, but by the time I realized we were betrayed, it was too late." She choked back fresh tears as she recalled her discovery of the butchered corpses of her sister-in-law and her little nephew, murdered in their beds. Howe's vicious barbarians must have slain them first, knowing they were defenseless. A hot wellspring of rage rose within her, and she tamped it down with considerable effort. Poor Fergus – how he must have felt when he'd realized what had happened to his family.

"How did you escape?" she asked him, to direct the conversation away from the horrible fates of Oriana and Oren as much as to satisfy her own burning curiosity.

"Through sheer luck, or the grace of the Maker. Take your pick," Fergus said grimly. "My company of knights was ambushed by Howe's men just before we reached Ostagar. I took an arrow in the back, and Howe's pigs must have thought me dead. I was rescued by a Chasind scout shortly after the battle. I was the only survivor," he said bitterly. "He brought me back to his clan, and I was nursed back to health by the tribe's healer. I returned to Denerim in time to hear that you were leading the army against the darkspawn attack." He sighed. "I suppose I'm going to have to go to Highever soon, to start rebuilding what Howe destroyed. There's always a place for you there, you know that."

"I know." She embraced her brother again, but this time, as she held him, her eyes settled on Loghain, who, along with Leliana, was busy trying to seem as inconspicuous as possible. Where was her place, now? What happened after the Blight? It was a question to which she had given no thought whatsoever – by the time the end actually seemed in sight, she had resigned herself to the Wardens' ultimate sacrifice. But here she was, alive and well, or so it seemed – and so was Loghain. What did the future hold for them now?

It was a question she couldn't begin to wrap her mind around just yet. There was still so much she didn't know, still so much she needed to resolve – not least of which was the hope that lurked at the back of her mind after her awakening. She almost did not dare to even form the thought, as though voicing it, even silently within the private confines of her own mind, would dispel the illusion. But as she looked at Loghain, she felt herself instinctively reaching out for him, waiting to feel his reassuring presence through the taint – but she was answered only with silence. Her heart skipped a beat as she finally allowed her mind to form the thought that had nagged at her since her strange experience with the poisonous black tendrils and the white soothing light.

Had Andraste's ashes cured her of the taint?

And – if, Maker be praised, that was true – could they cure Loghain, too?

Her thoughts were interrupted by an urgent rapping at the door. Loghain's brows creased into a surly frown, and he shot an apologetic look at Moira as he approached the door, his face thunderous. Apparently this visitor was unexpected.

Loghain cracked the portal open a mere inch and scowled at the sliver of light that spilled from the corridor beyond.

"This is not a good time," he barked. "Whoever you are, you can come back later. Lady Cousland is not ready to entertain visitors."

"That may be," an familiar, haughty voice replied from the other side. "And I assure you that I shall not unduly trouble Lady Cousland's rest. But the Queen of Ferelden will not be kept from any part of her own castle, not even by her well-meaning but overprotective father."

Face flushing, Loghain retreated from the door, and Anora proceeded into the room as if no interruption had occurred. An expression of surprise and relief graced her countenance upon seeing Moira awake and alert.

"Lady Moira. It is truly wonderful to see you awake and well." Anora's voice was warm with genuine pleasure, but Moira could see that a tension rested on the queen's features. "At least one good thing has come of this day." She turned to her father, her smile dissipating, and a creeping apprehension stole into Moira's gut.

"I am very sorry to interrupt your reunion so soon," Anora said, her voice grave. "But I am afraid this cannot wait." Loghain's expression was confused and irritated in equal measure, and Moira could see that he knew nothing about this urgent business of Anora's. Whatever it was, it sounded like nothing good.

"What's going on?" she said.

"Please, rest, Lady Cousland," Anora insisted. "You are in no condition to worry about Denerim politics at the moment. The situation is under control, but unfortunately, I must claim the presence of my father for the time being. And you as well, Teyrn Fergus."

Moira looked from her brother to Loghain in bewilderment. "What exactly is going on? Is Loghain all right?"

Loghain, for his part, looked equally baffled. "What is the meaning of this, daughter? I've only just returned to Denerim not two hours ago. Surely any political nonsense can wait."

"I am afraid it cannot," Anora said apologetically. "I tried my best to discourage him, but Arl Eamon managed to gather a plurality of the nobles of the Landsmeet as soon as his agents informed him of your return to the city. He has convened a tribunal, against my protests, in which your fitness to remain as Teyrn of Gwaren will be adjudicated by your peers. He has determined that the tribunal will begin at once."

"What?" Moira exclaimed in alarm. "This is outrageous! The Landsmeet gave me the authority to accept Loghain into the Grey Wardens – it has no right to mete out more punishment after the fact! This is an injustice!" Loghain said nothing, but a brooding, thunderous expression clouded his face, and his hand slowly balled into a tightly clenched fist at his side.

"Eamon dares greatly to so boldly contravene your authority, Your Majesty," Moira continued. "Could you not put an end to this? Royal prerogative – "

"Would be seen as a tyrannical exercise in nepotism if I were to declare the authority of a tribunal backed by a plurality of the nobility null and void," Anora finished, her voice tight with controlled anger. "Arl Eamon is a canny politician, and he knows he has backed me into a corner. I can, of course, dissolve the tribunal with a mere word, but it would come at considerable cost. I would be seen as a daughter first and a queen second, a brat using her newfound authority to manipulate the levers of power for the advancement of her unpopular father. Eamon knows I have few enough trustworthy allies, and my father fewer. He knows that if I am to maintain a reputation as a queen invested in the well-being of all Ferelden, I must not be seen to contradict the wishes of the majority. As much as I might will it otherwise, my hands are tied."

"And he waited until any dissenting voices were otherwise disposed," Fergus observed. "I have been in the palace all day, and have received no word of this tribunal. Doubtless the arl expected me to be too busy attending to my sister." He looked carefully at Moira. "And, most likely, he did not expect you to be awake at all. He didn't seem overly convinced of your survival, the last time I spoke with him."

A solid core of hot anger coalesced within Moira's chest. Eamon had been markedly cool to her ever since the Landsmeet, when she had saved Loghain's life and thwarted his ploy to depose Anora in favor of Alistair. She supposed he would have no love lost for Loghain – and perhaps understandably so, given all that had passed between them. But for him to deliberately engineer a drumhead 'trial' to exact further revenge against Loghain knowing that Loghain's supporters would be outnumbered or indisposed –

"I'm going." Moira seethed with fury, and she abruptly stood from the bed. A wave of dizziness seized her, and she tottered against the bed, grabbing the edge to keep herself from falling. Fergus was at her side at once, his expression stern.

"Absolutely not," he said firmly. "Moira, I know you –" He cut himself off, casting a half-glance at Loghain behind his shoulder. "I know you know Loghain better than I do," he continued, and Moira heard a strange tension in her brother's voice. "And I don't approve of Arl Eamon manipulating the queen like this. But you're in no shape to attend a riotous political debate right now. Maker's breath, you just woke up from a two-month coma!"

"Your brother is right." Loghain's voice was quiet but intense, and, for the first time since Fergus's arrival, they shared a poignant look. She could see the frustration and anger in his eyes, but she could also see his concern for her, a concern that overrode whatever resentment he felt about Eamon's machinations. "You need to rest, Moira. I can and will handle whatever Arl Eamon wants to throw at me."

"I'm fine," she said irritably, waving off Fergus's steadying hand as she attempted to make her way gingerly towards the door. "And I'd appreciate not being treated like a helpless invalid. In case you've all forgotten, I'm a noble too, and apparently all of Ferelden is in my debt. I'd like to remind them of that debt right now." She slowly made her way across the room, her footing unsteady but surer with each step. She stopped when she reached Anora, and – willing herself not to lose her balance – bowed her head in an awkward but dignified royal curtsy.

"Your Majesty, I'd like to request your permission to attend the tribunal regarding the Teyrn of Gwaren's title and possession," she said, making direct eye contact with the queen. Anora's expression, as usual, remained composed, but her eyes glittered with respect, admiration, and not a small amount of bemusement.

"Permission granted, Lady Cousland," Anora responded. "I am certain your brother would be happy to escort you to the tribunal in the privy council chamber. I have no doubt that the assembled nobles will be delighted to offer their profound gratitude for your heroism during the Blight."

"Then let's get this over with," Loghain grumbled. He cast one concerned look back at Moira before Anora gently shepherded him from the room. As Moira prepared to follow, Fergus's arm linked through hers, she spied Leliana, who stood still in the corner, discreet and unnoticed in the wake of the political drama.

"Leliana, I'm sorry –"

"Do not apologize," Leliana said with a smile. "Duty calls. I understand. We will speak soon."

Moira sagged against Fergus as they made their way down the corridor in Loghain and Anora's wake, grateful for her brother's arm even though she could hardly admit it after her little display of stubborn independence in the room. The privy council chamber seemed so far away, but Moira knew, as they traversed the labyrinthine corridors of the palace, that her fatigue was merely catching up with her. She hoped that she would not end up proving Fergus and Loghain right – she knew she needed rest, but she would be damned if she allowed Arl Eamon and his cronies to run roughshod over Loghain without her intervention.

As they prepared to turn a corner, a gentle pressure at her elbow stilled her, and Moira turned to find Fergus regarding her intently.

"What is it?" She frowned. "Fergus, I know I just woke up, but I can do this, I promise –"

"That's not it." Fergus fixed her with a solemn expression. "Moira, you have to understand that all I know of the situation during the Blight is what I heard after I returned to Denerim. And quite frankly, none of it casts Loghain in a very good light." He pursed his lips, as if considering his words. "It's clear that there's some sort of… affection, or bond, between you two. But when I look at him, all I see is the man who apparently gave Rendon Howe free reign to usurp our family's title and lands. I don't understand how you can overlook that."

Moira looked at her brother, a cold, clammy fist of fear closing around her heart. "Fergus, it's – it's not that simple," she floundered. Maker, she hadn't even realized how Loghain must seem to Fergus, who hadn't been there for the Landsmeet, who hadn't spent the following two months traveling with him and coming to understand what had motivated him.

"I'm sure it's not," Fergus responded patiently. "And I want you to know that I trust you, and I trust your judgment. If you say that Loghain wasn't responsible for what happened to our family, then I'll believe you. But I need to know now that he had nothing to do with Howe's treachery, especially if you want me to vote against Eamon." Fergus locked his gaze with hers, and she saw a steely resolve in her eyes that reminded her painfully of their father.

Moira took a deep breath as she returned Fergus's gaze, willing all of her love and trust for Loghain to shine through.

"Fergus, I believe with all of my heart that Loghain truly thought he was doing the best thing he could for Ferelden," she said. "You weren't at Ostagar, but the battle was a shambles from the beginning. His retreat saved the rest of the army. He made a terrible error in judgment when he allied with Howe, but he was desperate for allies, and Howe was a deceitful snake. He certainly fooled us when we threw open the gates of Highever to his army, and he fooled Loghain just the same. He told Loghain that Father was an Orlesian conspirator, and that the Grey Wardens were in league with Empress Celene. Loghain was too blinded by his hatred of Orlais, and that hatred made him vulnerable to Howe's lies." She noticed no change in Fergus's expression, and hoped desperately that she was reaching him. "He made mistakes, many of them awful, but he is not a monster. I spared him at the Landsmeet for a reason, and believe me when I say that being a Grey Warden is punishment enough." Moira was balanced on tenterhooks, waiting for Fergus's reaction. She held his gaze for what seemed like several long minutes before, at last, he closed his eyes, releasing his breath in a soft sigh.

"All right," he said. "I'm not going to pretend that I trust him, but I trust you. If you say that he had nothing to do with what happened to our family, then I believe you."

Moira released a breath she hadn't even known she'd held, and she sagged against Fergus in relief. "Thank you," she whispered. She knew it would take some time for Fergus to accept how she felt for Loghain – and she was thankful that she didn't have to have that conversation right now – but this was a start.

"Anything for you, little pup," he said, taking her arm in his again. "Now let's go get this settled so you can get some rest."

* * *

Loghain simmered with rage as he stalked behind Anora towards the privy council chambers. That conniving snake Eamon –he no doubt intended to strike a blow against Anora's influence while also ridding himself of a troublesome enemy and freeing up the lands and title of a teyrnir to boot. Loghain assumed he already had a candidate in mind to fill the vacancy – his brother, most likely. Loghain had no real objection to Bann Teagan, but it would be just like Eamon to ensure that, if he couldn't control the throne, he would at least position himself to become the indisputable power-broker amongst the Landsmeet. To make matters worse, the arl had managed to interrupt his reunion with Moira. The last thing she needed to worry about was political bullshit, but here they were – she'd been awake not half an hour, and already they'd been pulled apart by forces beyond their control. His heart clenched in emotion as he remembered her fiery insistence on defending his honor at the tribunal. Truly, he did not know what he'd ever done to earn her affection or her loyalty. He knew he certainly didn't deserve it.

He followed Anora into the chamber to discover that Arl Eamon had apparently not deigned to wait on the guest of honor before convening the hearing. A collection of prominent banns and arls sat around the long table in the center of the room engaged in heated debate, which quieted as soon as Anora pushed open the council chamber doors and entered the room. The chatter silenced as the nobility rose to their feet as one, bowing respectfully to their queen.

Loghain suppressed a scoff of derision. _Where was their deference when Eamon connived to hold this farce of a proceeding behind Anora's back?_

"Your Majesty. You grace us with your presence. I thank you for bringing Teyrn Loghain to this hearing and sparing me a courier. Now we may begin." Eamon swept into a courtly bow, it took every ounce of Loghain's willpower not to snort out loud.

"Arl Eamon. Lords and Ladies," Anora nodded politely to her assembled vassals. "It appears to me as though you've already begun. It is most irregular to convene a tribunal impinging on the rights and duties of a teyrn of Ferelden without ensuring that said teyrn is present before beginning the debate." Anora made a show of searching the faces at the table before turning to Eamon with a puzzled expression. "I do not see Teyrn Fergus Cousland among those present. I find it difficult to imagine how any sort of consensus regarding the holdings of the teyrnir of Gwaren could be reached without consulting either of Ferelden's teyrns or its queen."

"Your Majesty." Eamon bowed again. "I dispatched a servant to send Teyrn Cousland his summons once the final meeting time had been arranged, but with strict instructions not to interrupt the teyrn if he was attending to his sister. I would not wish to interfere with the teyrn's responsibility to his family, especially since the treachery at Highever by Teyrn Loghain's ally Rendon Howe has ensured that he has so little family left."

"I had nothing to do with Howe's massacre of the Couslands! How dare you use the tragedy at Highever to excuse your political maneuverings!" Loghain shot back, unable to hold his tongue.

"How ironic. I seem to recall that you shamelessly exploited the tragedy at Ostagar to justify your takeover of the throne –a tragedy you set in motion, no less. You reaped no little benefit from Howe's takeover of the teyrnir of Highever as well, yet now you would purport to defend the Cousland family honor – after spending a good deal of the Blight trying your damndest to kill Moira Cousland," Eamon thundered righteously, and a good number of heads around the table nodded in agreement. Beneath his seething anger, Loghain felt a hot wellspring of shame bubble through his chest. Eamon was engaging in political theater, but nothing he'd said was wrong. Loghain was reminded of the memories the Guardian of the Ashes had forced him to relive, all of his mistakes borne of arrogance and hatred, and once again, he felt his dishonor keenly.

"A grievous mistake for which she conscripted me into the Grey Wardens," he said. "I have already undertaken my penance, Eamon. As a Grey Warden I fought beside Moira Cousland, who nearly sacrificed her life to save Ferelden. It is to her and to Ferelden I owe my allegiance, my atonement, and my apology. I will fulfill whatever duty she asks of me, but I will not allow you to subvert the Queen's authority with this illegitimate tribunal. My fate was decided at the Landsmeet, and if you have any problems with Moira Cousland's judgment, you may take them up with her."

"That is all well and good, but in the meantime, a teyrnir of Ferelden lies rudderless and adrift," Eamon rejoined. "It is not proper for so many freeholders to labor tirelessly to rebuild their lands without knowing to whom they owe fealty. There is peace in certainty, Teyrn Loghain, and certainty is what the teyrnir of Gwaren currently lacks. As a Grey Warden condemned by the Landsmeet for your crimes, it is not fitting that you should continue to hold the title of Teyrn of Gwaren. The teyrnir requires a noble governor who knows well the burdens and responsibilities of rulership. Any one of my peers present would be qualified." Eamon looked out sagely to survey his fellow aristocrats, and Loghain felt a surge of resentment – the arl was not subtle in alluding to Loghain's common birth.

"My Lord, I beg your pardon, but it was my belief that we would hold a vote on Teyrn Loghain's fitness to retain his title, after hearing his testimony and any other evidence." The protest came from a tall, handsome bann who Loghain recognized as Jevrin Barris of Crestwood.

"Of course," Eamon replied smoothly. "But the assembled tribunal should note for the record that the Landsmeet found Teyrn Loghain unfit to remain as regent. I would propose that all evidence of his wrongdoing thus uncovered should be considered as evident and true for the purposes of this proceeding. I would not wish to waste any more of my colleagues' time than is necessary."

"You've already wasted more than enough of everyone's time, Eamon." The doors banged open with a flourish, and Loghain's heart quickened as he turned to behold Moira striding in to the chamber, flanked by her grim faced brother. A chorus of gasps filled the room as the assembled lords and ladies realized they were in the presence of the hero who had ended the Blight.

"The Hero of Ferelden!" Bann Alfstanna rose to her feet, placing her arm over her chest in solemn salute. Most of the other nobles quickly followed suit, and soon the whole room stood, offering their tribute to a visibly self-conscious Moira.

"She's alive!"

"I told you she'd pull through – she's Bryce and Eleanor Cousland's daughter, she's tougher than any darkspawn!"

"Maker be praised!"

Loghain could not take his eyes from Moira. She was as beautiful as ever, hair pulled back in a simple braid, dressed casually in a tunic and breeches – hardly the clothes one would wear to a noble gathering, and yet she had earned the uncontested respect of every man and woman in the room. She was remarkable, and he could hardly believe that she had come here for him.

Moira graced the gathering with a wan, tired smile in the face of the effusive praise. "Thank you," she replied, her voice still weak from her long slumber. "In truth, I did not expect to survive my encounter with the Archdemon during the battle at Fort Drakon. That I am here at all is thanks to the Maker's grace." _In more ways than one_ , Loghain thought as the crowd nodded sagely. "In fact, if it were not for the efforts and faith of this man here –" she gestured now at him – "I would still lie in a deathlike slumber. Loghain may have been my enemy once, but I can assure you that he is no longer. He is a man of bravery and honor, a man who swore to defend Ferelden with his very life, who has now been called here to endure the recriminations of those who enjoy the fruits of his sacrifice." Her gaze fixed steadily on Arl Eamon, who appeared scandalized and affronted in equal measure.

"Loghain's bravery is not in dispute, Lady Cousland," Arl Eamon said tightly. "And while we are all surely grateful for his efforts at your side during the Blight and his dedication to restoring your health, none of that is germane to his fitness to remain as the Teyrn of Gwaren. He is a Grey Warden now, by your prerogative, my lady. As a Warden, he cannot be expected to dedicate his energy to administering a teyrnir. Surely you can agree that the duties of the Grey Wardens must come before any other concerns."

Moira's jaw tightened, and Loghain knew at once that Eamon had made a fatal error in appealing to Moira's dedication to the Wardens. "'The duties of the Grey Wardens must come before any other concerns?' You didn't seem to think so when you tried to install a Grey Warden on Ferelden's throne, or have you already forgotten about poor, misbegotten Alistair? Tell me, Eamon, have you spared a single thought for him since your plans to make him your puppet king fell through?"

"That is extraordinarily unfair," Eamon retorted, face red. "Alistair is of Theirin blood, and the kingship was rightly his!"

"His Theirin blood didn't keep you from exiling him to the stables at the behest of your jealous Orlesian wife, or giving him up to the Chantry's orphanage at her whim," Moira rejoined. "You didn't give one solitary damn about Alistair until you could use him to gain the throne. Better a Theirin bastard king than a queen with commoner's blood, is that right? Even if that bastard happened to be a Grey Warden?"

A susurration of murmurs rumbled through the council chamber, and Eamon glared balefully at Moira, knowing her words were costing him the crowd's favor. "This tribunal is not about Alistair or Queen Anora," he said haughtily. "It is about Loghain's fitness to remain as Teyrn of Gwaren –"

"This tribunal is a sham, and you know it," Moira said. "You thought you could humiliate Queen Anora and dispose of a political enemy at the same time. You neglected to invite my brother, the Teyrn of Highever, who by all rights should attend any meeting of the Landsmeet. You failed to inform Loghain of these 'charges' against him until the proceedings were underway. You didn't even inform the Queen of your plans until you'd already invited nobles favorable to your cause – though somehow, I doubt your fellows would have agreed to attend, had they known that they were moving behind their queen's back."

"Is that true, Eamon?" Arl Wulff barked, fixing a surly glare at Eamon. "You didn't tell Teyrn Cousland about the proceedings?"

"I had no idea that the tribunal had been convened until Queen Anora informed me not half an hour ago," Fergus confirmed. "I suspect Eamon knows that my sister supports Teyrn Loghain, and he didn't want anyone overly sympathetic to Loghain to attend."

"That is most certainly not true –"

"Perhaps not," Fergus allowed, "but the fact remains that I was not invited, nor was my sister. It is truly egregious that the woman to whom Ferelden owes its continued survival, who knows Loghain best of all of us, was deliberately excluded."

"I had no idea she was alive!" Eamon thundered.

"You didn't care enough to find out," Loghain interjected, glowering at Eamon.

"Enough!" Anora's steely voice cut through the bickering. "I cannot comment on the intentions of those who convened this tribunal, but it is evident to all present that it has disintegrated into chaos. I will not permit my Landsmeet to engage in pointless squabbling and petty recriminations. If there is to be a tribunal, let evidence be presented and testimony taken. Otherwise, let us not waste any more time."

Most of the nobles at the council table had the good grace to look ashamed. "The Queen is right," Bann Teagan said, to Loghain's considerable surprise. "This arguing serves no purpose and degrades us all. If we are to question Teyrn Loghain, let us do it."

"And who is going to question him? Arl Eamon?" Bann Jevrin said. "The arl gave me to understand that he was pursuing this tribunal with the queen's full blessing. To find out that he went against her wishes, and didn't even notify Teyrn Cousland or Lady Cousland – that doesn't sit well with me."

"Lady Cousland saved us all," Wulff added. "The Blight would have devoured all of Ferelden if not for her. And whatever else Loghain might have done wrong, he stood with her in the end. That's what matters."

"I think we should hear what Lady Cousland has to say. She's the one we agreed to follow at the Landsmeet, and it was she who made Loghain a Grey Warden. It seems to me that her opinion carries more weight than anyone else's here."

A chorus of 'hear hears' echoed through the council room at Alfstanna's words, and, knowing he had been outmaneuvered, Eamon turned to regard Moira, assembling his face into a cool but cordial mask.

"The tribunal has made it clear that it wishes to defer to Lady Cousland on this matter," he said, voice tight. "I am duty-bound to follow its direction. Lady Cousland, is there anything you wish to say?"

Moira cast her gaze around the room, studying each noble in turn. "Anything I say would merely legitimize the existence of this tribunal, which I refuse to do. So I will only say this: I trust that Loghain will be as dedicated to the teyrnir of Gwaren as he was to Ferelden as a Grey Warden during the Blight, where he served beside me with honor, courage, and integrity." She turned to Anora, and bowed. "By Your Majesty's leave, I would request that this tribunal be disbanded, and Loghain Mac Tir affirmed as the Teyrn of Gwaren, with such title and holdings to pass to his heirs."

Anora's expression did not change, but Loghain saw, as only one familiar with the queen's moods could, the satisfaction that lay behind her cool countenance.

"Hero of Ferelden, all your country owes you its survival and its profound gratitude. As your Queen, I decree that you are herewith granted this boon, freely and without condition. If there is any other boon you would ask of your nation, please do not hesitate to do so."

Moira bowed deeply. "Thank you, Your Majesty. This shall suffice."

Anora turned to the assembled nobles, and Loghain had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from cracking a wry smile at Eamon's flabbergasted expression. "Your service to this tribunal is hereby concluded," she announced. "I thank you all for your loyal dedication to Ferelden. The tribunal is dissolved." The nobles rose to their feet once more, bowing graciously towards their monarch, who returned their esteem with a nod of her head. Eamon was left standing alone, the other nobles unwilling to be seen with the man who'd earned the ire of both the queen and the Hero of Ferelden. Only Teagan came to Eamon's aid, taking his brother by the arm and leading him wordlessly from the council chamber.

"Well, that was exciting," Fergus quipped. "It looks like you didn't need my vote after all. You've become quite the orator, little pup."

Moira snorted, and Loghain could see the exhaustion in her eyes beneath her aura of indignant bluster. "That was hardly oratory. I'm surprised I could manage all of that without any swear words. And stop calling me 'little pup,' you know how much I hate it."

Fergus grinned in the way that only elder brothers can manage. "Of course I do," he agreed. "Which is why I'll never stop." He sobered as Loghain approached them, and Loghain wondered exactly what Moira had told him about their relationship – or how much he'd been able to figure out on his own.

"I apologize that you all had to go through that," Anora said as the last of the nobles filed out of the council chambers, leaving the four of them alone. "Teyrn Fergus, you certainly deserve more respect than you were shown by Arl Eamon today, especially after the tragic circumstances in which you inherited your title."

Fergus shrugged. "I'm sure it will take some time for some of the crustier old stalwarts in the Landsmeet to get used to a peer who is young enough to be their son. It's certainly not how I envisioned becoming teyrn, but…" His voice trailed off, and Moira grasped his arm, sharing his moment of grief.

"I understand," Anora said quietly. She turned to Moira. "And you certainly deserve all of the acclaim Ferelden can bestow, and more. I suppose you discovered today that folk have taken to calling you the 'Hero of Ferelden.' I imagine it's probably too pretentious for your liking, but at the same time, it's certainly true. You are a hero to all of Ferelden."

Moira pulled a face. "As long as no one ever actually calls me that, I suppose I can't begrudge the people their need for a hero to celebrate."

"As you wish, Hero," Fergus said, earning him a smack on the arm. "What? You said you didn't like little pup."

"She might be the Hero of Ferelden, but she needs her sleep like the rest of us mere mortals," Loghain said. "Now that this nonsense is dealt with, Moira should get some rest. I'm certain the next few weeks will be hectic, what with the whole country wanting to celebrate their 'Hero.'"

"Indeed," Anora agreed. "Thank you for your words today, Lady Cousland. I know you did not do it for me, but your assistance is appreciated nevertheless. You are, of course, welcome to remain in Denerim as long as you like. If there is anything I can do for you, please let me know." With a gracious nod, the queen departed, leaving Moira alone with Fergus and Loghain.

"Loghain's right," Fergus said after the door had closed behind Anora. "You need to go get some rest."

"Stop clucking over me like mother hens, both of you," Moira groused. "I'm fine."

"Nonsense," Loghain harrumphed. "I know what exhaustion looks like. You've been in bed for nearly two months. You've been awake an hour. You're not ready to storm the ramparts just yet."

"I'm going to go to the kitchens to get some dinner," Fergus said. "I'll bring you something after awhile." He leaned in to kiss her on the forehead. "It's so good to have you back, Moira."

A surge of emotion overcame her, and she threw her arms around him. "You too, Fergus," she whispered, clinging to her brother. With a smile, he detached from her and met Loghain's gaze.

"Take care of her," he said, and Loghain understood at once that Fergus knew there was more than just friendship between he and Moira. Holding the younger man's gaze steadily, he nodded solemnly.

"I will. You have my word."

Satisfied, Fergus nodded in return, and when he was gone, Loghain gathered Moira into his arms, grateful at last for their solitude.

She collapsed bonelessly against him, finally giving in to her fatigue. Her arms curled around him and he held her tight, burying his face in her soft hair.

"Thank you for what you did for me today," he whispered fiercely. "I hardly deserve such loyalty, especially from you."

"Don't be silly!" She pulled back to look at him. "You deserve it most especially from me. I love you, Loghain."

His heart contracted painfully as he looked into her eyes. She was so young, so sweet and innocent and trusting, and she had given her love to him, of all people, after everything he'd done. She was such a treasure – surely she deserved so much better out of life than anything he could offer her. What was he but a disgraced traitor? All of her rousing speeches could not change what he'd done, or how little he deserved her.

He swallowed back the swell of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. Now was not the time for any such talk. She looked at him longingly, but her eyes were heavy-lidded with exhaustion, and he would not draw her into a conversation for which she was not ready, not until she got some rest.

"I love you too," he said, leaning in to kiss her on the forehead, smiling as he heard her whimper of disappointment. "Hush. You need your rest before you need anything else. Let's go back to your chambers."

"Don't need rest," she grumbled, leaning heavily against him as he led her out the door and down the corridor. "Just need you."

"You'll have me," he said, her sleepy words sending a thrill of anticipation through his blood that he forcefully shoved aside. "But not right now."

She made no reply, and as soon as they reached her chambers, he'd no sooner tucked her under the covers than she was sound asleep, snoring softly. He watched her in the dim candlelight for several long minutes, marveling at the blessings the Maker had bestowed upon her. She had awakened, thanks to the grace of Andraste, and – though he dared not hope too much – perhaps the ashes had even cured her of the Warden's corruption. He reached out to her through the taint, and felt nothing, just as he had earlier. If she retained the taint, it was changed, and no longer apparent to other Wardens – or perhaps even the darkspawn. If the ashes had cured her, however…

She would be free. Free to live her life the way she'd always wanted, no longer bound to the Grey Wardens and their poisonous chains. And if she was truly free, then she would be free to choose her own destiny – a destiny that did not need to be weighed down by the sins of a man who would only drag her down into the mire of his dishonor.

Leaning over the bed, he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Sleep well, beloved," he whispered. "Fergus will be here soon." He glanced back at her, slumbering peacefully, before he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.


	18. In My Arms Lies Eternity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, remember when I was going to write 50,000 words of From the Ashes in November for NaNo? Yeah, me too. I think I should probably refrain from making specific deadline promises from here on out! My sincere apologies for the two month wait for this chapter. By way of atonement, please enjoy this chapter! It is a) very long and b) very NSFW. As always, thank you all for your continued support, and I will offer a vague assurance that you will not have to wait two more months before the next update.

Loghain heaved a weary sigh as he dipped his signet into the hot wax, pressed the seal against the parchment, and placed the letter atop a pile of several dozen similar missives, all awaiting delivery to various vassals, functionaries and assorted other persons of import. With all the chaos of the Blight, the Landsmeet, and the battles since, he'd forgotten just how Maker-forsaken tedious the business of ruling a teyrnir could be.

_And for some thick-skulled reason, I actually thought I wanted to be the regent. Maker preserve me, I must have truly lost my mind to fancy a job with_ more _paperwork._

It had been a week since Moira's spectacular rebuke of Arl Eamon, and in that week, he'd barely seen her, except briefly in passing. She was the 'Hero of Ferelden,' and – as he knew all too well – Heroes with a capital H were in high demand. She'd been hustled and bustled about to various fetes held in her honor by grateful nobles and tradesmen eager to demonstrate their appreciation of the Hero by plying her with gifts and acclaim (and, no doubt, equally eager to curry favor with the second-most influential woman in Ferelden), and Loghain had managed to excuse himself from most of those events. Not because he didn't wish to attend with her – any time spent with Moira was time well spent – but because he knew his presence would provide a measure of controversy that she did not deserve to deal with, not when all the nation accorded her its greatest Hero. His own reputation was still much damaged, though Moira's obvious favor had done much to quell most of the discontented mutterings that continued to demand his further punishment. He nevertheless saw no sense in tainting Fereldans' good opinion of her by association with the man many still regarded as a regicide and a traitor.

It was a subject on which he'd spent much thought in the past week. He loved Moira – of that he was as certain as he'd ever been of anything. He knew she loved him. And yet a nagging uncertainty whispered mutinously in the back of his mind, a voice that warned him of dire consequences for her if he should selfishly pursue his interest in her. He was a pariah – he had no illusions about what he'd done to his reputation once the wool had been stripped from his eyes after the Landsmeet. She, on the other hand – she was a true hero, a woman of courage, fortitude, and honor, who had saved her country without losing her soul in the process. If his suspicions were right, then she was even free of the taint, and, by extension, free of the Grey Wardens' chains. There was nothing she couldn't do, no heights to which she couldn't aspire. What right did he have to drag her down, an anchor of shame and disgrace pulling her down into the depths of his dishonor with him? It would be selfish and unfair to her.

His musings were interrupted by a knock at his door, and he stifled a growl of displeasure. Moira had given him a gift when she'd insisted he be reaffirmed as the Teyrn of Gwaren, and he would not disrespect her by giving the job anything less than his utmost care and attention. Assembling his face into a composed mask of calm, he bade his guest to enter.

Relief and surprise welled within him when Ser Threnn, a knight in his service, walked through the door, her stern face uncharacteristically displaying a smile.

"Teyrn Loghain," she said respectfully, straightening into a military pose and giving him a crisp salute. "I apologize for my delay, Your Grace. After the Landsmeet, most of us were conscripted into the Fereldan army, and I just received word in the barracks that you were formally reinstated as the Teyrn of Gwaren. If Your Grace will allow it, it would be my pleasure to swear my oath of fealty to you, my lord."

Loghain knew that the 'most of us' to whom Threnn referred to were the soldiers and knights sworn to his service, and he realized, to his disgrace, that he had not paused to spare much thought for their fates after the Landsmeet. They had offered their service to him without question, even in the aftermath of his decision at Ostagar, and he had repaid their loyalty with disregard. Shame filled him.

"Ser Threnn, I…" How to express his gratitude and his remorse to a woman who had no doubt suffered because of her connection to him, and who had remained stalwart and loyal even so?

"It would be my honor to accept your oath," he said. "But you are under no obligation to me. I dishonored your loyalty through my actions, and the judgment against me at the Landsmeet released you from any duties owed to me. I understand completely if you or any of your fellows should choose to seek service elsewhere."

"You have nothing to be ashamed of, Your Grace," Threnn said, her voice taut with anger. "You made the right call at Ostagar. I thought so then, and I do now. We were proud to stand with you, my lord, and by your leave, we'd be proud to do so again."

Loghain hardly knew what to say, and so he opted for the simplest, truest words he could find. "Thank you, Ser Threnn. I accept your oath, and I shall endeavor to ensure that my actions as teyrn merit the loyalty and respect you have shown me."

Threnn clasped a fist over her chest in a smart military salute. "Thank you, my lord. The honor is mine. I'll be certain to pass word to the others. You've more friends than you might think."

Loghain found himself oddly heartened by her words. Perhaps it was true that most of the nobility scorned him, but they had never much liked him to begin with – he, a common-born interloper who had never truly belonged to their world. But the warriors – the knights, the sergeants, the soldiers, the men and women who actually donned armor and fought and bled and died for Ferelden – their support meant more to him than the ring-kissing of any powdered and pampered aristocrat, and it always had. It was not the Eamons or the Cailans who made Ferelden great – it was the Threnns, the Cauthriens –

Loghain's stomach lurched as he realized with shattering immediacy that he'd never discovered what had happened to Cauthrien, his champion. A roiling sense of nauseous guilt filled him, and he clenched his jaw tight, gritting his teeth against the unwelcome tightness in his throat.

"My Lord?" Threnn said, her brows furrowed in concern.

"Ser Cauthrien." He recalled how, in thrall to his madness, he'd demanded Cauthrien bar the Landsmeet doors, to prevent Moira from disrupting his tirade against the imagined Orlesian invasion. He realized now he'd never asked Moira how she'd gotten past Cauthrien and her honor guard. "Is she – "

"Cauthrien?" There was a note of surprise in Threnn's voice. "I thought you'd heard, ser?"

"Heard what?" That she was dead, on his orders? "I have been a poor lord, Ser Threnn. I admit I did not inquire as to Cauthrien's fate after the Landsmeet. Is she…"

"Is she… oh! No, ser. She's not dead, if that's what you mean." A tremendous sense of relief flooded through Loghain at Threnn's words. But of course, Moira would not have killed Cauthrien if she'd at all been able to avoid it. She was nothing like him. "But you'd best go to check on her if you haven't yet, my lord. The last I'd heard, she was being held at the gaol. Some kind of tavern brawl. I'm not certain if she's gone before the magistrate yet – I only heard the chatter in the barracks about a week past."

Cauthrien, in _gaol?_ A tavern brawl? That was entirely unlike her – the soldier he knew had always been a consummate professional, completely devoted to her duties, a serious-minded woman who barely smiled, let alone reveled in taverns. "In gaol? What on earth happened?"

Threnn shrugged. "I couldn't say, my lord. As I said, I've only just heard the soldiers' gossip. I honestly thought you knew."

The extent to which Loghain had neglected his former liegemen shamed him thoroughly, and he roused himself from behind his desk. He had failed them in his madness and in his fall from grace, but thanks to Moira, he had a second chance. A chance to do right as the Teyrn of Gwaren, and to do right by the men and women who had paid a dear price for their loyalty to him. He was not about to let Cauthrien molder in the foul Denerim gaol, not now that he had the power to do something about it.

"Thank you, Ser Threnn," he said. "For everything." A thought occurred to him. "I have a duty for you, if you wish it."

"Of course, my lord," she responded earnestly. "Anything."

"Gather up your fellows. Any who were sworn to me are welcome to return to my service. If there are any who do not choose to serve me again, leave them be – they are free to go their own way. Take all those who wish to join you and return to Gwaren. I am afraid I have been gone too long, and the land has suffered in my absence. Do what you can for the folk there. Whatever they need – resources, labor, defenses, anything. I entrust the teyrnir to your capable hands until I am able to return there myself. Does that suit you?"

Threnn's face flushed with pride. "It shall be done as you command, Your Grace."

"Excellent," he said. "And Threnn," he said, as the knight turned to leave, "thank you."

Once Threnn had departed, Loghain snatched his cloak from the wall and threw it over his shoulders. He'd been unable to stop thinking of Cauthrien languishing in gaol. How long had she been there? Days? Weeks? Had she been there since the Landsmeet? Again he was shamed by the lack of concern he'd shown for his loyal knights. Moira would never have forgotten someone sworn to her service. Once again, he was reminded of his deficit of honor. Moira surely deserved better than a man who could forget about the fate of his most trusted and loyal lieutenant.

He strode purposefully through the streets, hooded and cloaked, keeping his head low and hoping he would not be recognized. The city still bore the scars of battle, but the resiliency of Ferelden was evident on every corner – in the sawdust of newly-constructed buildings, in the plaster of a repainted facade, and in the bustle of its people, hard at work as they rebuilt their lives brick by brick.

The gaol was guarded by two men at arms, who brusquely straightened up as he approached the door. "Move along," one of them, a stout, mustachioed man, barked. "No one's permitted in the gaol except on official business."

Loghain removed his hood and fixed the guard with his most withering scowl. "The Teyrn of Gwaren _is_ on official business. I need to speak with the gaoler."

The guard paled as he recognized Loghain. "Yes, ser! Of course, ser. Sorry, ser." He fumbled at his belt for the keys and swiftly unlocked the door. Loghain pushed his way into the dimly lit entryway and descended the stairs.

"Aye, what'll it be, then?" The gaoler called out as he entered the antechamber. A squat, fat man with a bulging key ring attached to his belt reclined perilously in a creaky old chair that looked barely able to support his weight. Loghain wondered if some enchantment served to keep it in service.

"Ser Cauthrien," Loghain said without prelude. "I'm told she's been locked up here after a tavern brawl. I'll take her into my custody now, if you please."

"If I please?" The gaoler cackled. "And if I don't please? There's laws what got to be followed. Yer prisoner clubbed one poor fella over the head with a tankard, sent another through a window, and knocked a third bastard's teeth clean outta his mouth. Can't have her disrupting the king's peace, can we?"

Loghain scowled ferociously – so the gaoler was one of those men who fancied himself the master of his little fiefdom. Such men gave up their precious power begrudgingly, if at all. Moreover, the notion of Cauthrien engaging in an all-out bar brawl confused and alarmed him – it was entirely out of character for her. What could have possibly prompted her to lose her temper so thoroughly that she ended up in a cell?

"And no doubt you've derived endless pleasure from lording your power over a woman whose sword you're not fit to polish," he scoffed. "Cauthrien is my liege, and as such, I am responsible for her conduct under the king's law. But, of course, you knew that – any gaoler should be well-versed in the king's law, after all."

The gaoler paled at Loghain's implied threat, and, with considerable struggle, righted his chair and waddled towards the cells. "Awright, awright, keep your britches on," he grumbled. "I'll bring her out straight away, yer mighty lordship."

He returned minutes later, and had Loghain not been aware that he was retrieving Cauthrien, he would not have recognized the woman who struggled in the gaoler's grip. Her clothing was filthy and her hair was matted, and she looked as though she hadn't bathed in days. She bore no resemblance to the proud, stern warrior who had steadfastly served at his side for years. When her gaze lighted upon him, she cast her head down in shame, refusing to meet his eyes.

"She's all yours, for whatever use that'll do you," the gaoler grumbled. Loghain found himself loathing the little tyrant and his petty power games, but he could not bear the sight of Cauthrien, covered in her own filth, spending one second longer in such misery, and so he merely gave the gaoler a curt nod and motioned for Cauthrien to follow him up the stairs.

They said nothing as they ascended the stairs, and Loghain, mindful of her state, flagged down a passing carriage on the street above, and paid the driver to take them to the gates of the royal palace. Easing them inside, Loghain shut the carriage door, and noticed that Cauthrien still refused to meet his gaze.

"Cauthrien," he said gently. "What happened to you?"

"I'm sorry." Her voice was a hoarse, cracked whisper. "I failed you. Everything that happened to you was my fault. I deserve whatever punishment you see fit. If you –" Her voice broke, and he noticed a rivulet of moisture sliding down her cheek. "If you decide to execute me, I only ask that I die by the sword, not like a beggar at the gallows."

Loghain stared at her, horrified. "Maker's breath, Cauthrien, I'm not going to _execute_ you! Why on earth would you think such a thing?"

"Because I abandoned you! I allowed the Grey Warden to challenge you at the Landsmeet, and you… they could have killed you, and it would have been my fault! I disobeyed a direct order and abandoned my lord when he most needed me. I hated myself for doing it, but…" Her voice trailed off into silence, and she squeezed her eyes shut tight against the tears that slipped free.

"Cauthrien. Hey." He reached out, and gently took her wrist in his hand. "You did the right thing. When I told you to stop Moira… I was caught in the grips of a madness that I'm only now beginning to understand. You were right to see that I was not of sound mind. You were right to allow Moira to confront me. She was right all along. I was blinded, a fool. I couldn't see that until she opened my eyes. And I couldn't have done that if you'd blindly followed me to your own ruin. You didn't fail me – you saved me from my own madness."

She shuddered as she released the sobs she'd been holding in, and her body quaked with wracking grief. Loghain wanted to comfort her, but he did not know how – it didn't seem quite appropriate to hold her, and yet his hand on her wrist felt woefully inadequate. He settled instead for taking both her hands in his, awkwardly patting his fingers against hers.

"You don't know how much it means to me to hear you say that," she whispered, sniffling loudly around her tears. "When I let the Grey Warden enter the Landsmeet, I felt… empty. I betrayed you. I spent my entire life serving you proudly and loyally, and I betrayed you. I didn't know what to do. I fought the darkspawn, and when the army came to Denerim, I heard you'd ended up as a Grey Warden too. I couldn't forgive myself for letting that happen to you. After the battle, I ended up at the Pearl. I couldn't bear the thought of your disappointment at my betrayal, so I hid like a coward, drowning my sorrows in ale." She sniffled again. "One night, a rowdy band of soldiers came in, looking to spend their silver on ale and girls. They started talking about the battle, and about… you. They called you a traitor and a disgrace." Her voice grew hard, and for the first time, Cauthrien sounded like her old self again. "I had already let you down once, and I was not about to allow those blackguards to insult your honor."

"And that's how you ended up in a gaol cell," he said wryly, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Cauthrien, you shouldn't have fought them. I wasn't – I'm not worth going to gaol for."

She looked up at him sharply. "Not worth – ser, you are my lord! I am honor-bound to defend you!"

"And you felt especially compelled to do so after the Landsmeet," he observed ruefully. "Cauthrien… believe me when I say you have done more than enough for me. If my honor is stained, it is my own doing. If I am to regain it, I must do so through my own actions."

"You didn't hear them! The things they said about you!" she challenged. "They said – they called you a traitor for what happened at Ostagar, and then they – " Her face darkened. "They said the Grey Warden took you as her trophy for defeating you at the Landsmeet, but you took her as your whore in return."

Loghain's blood ran hot with rage. "They called Moira a whore? Those pox-pricked bastards!" He flushed as he realized he'd just undermined his entire attempt at convincing Cauthrien she'd been wrong to start a tavern brawl in his defense. Well, when it had been a mere matter of _his_ honor, that had been one thing, but Moira's…

"It's true, then?" He barely heard Cauthrien's words through the haze of his fury. "You love her."

"What?" he snarled, still burning with the heat of the weeks-past insult against Moira's honor. The weight of Cauthrien's words settled onto him slowly, and he felt his anger dissipating as Cauthrien's face took on an odd, almost melancholy expression. He opened his mouth to deny her – but then shut it just as abruptly. Why would he deny loving Moira? He _did_ love Moira. That she deserved better than him was a different matter altogether.

"I do," he said. "She is a fine woman – the finest I've ever known. She deserves better than to be made sport of by crude men not fit to shine her boots." _She deserves better than me_.

At his words, Cauthrien closed her eyes again, and Loghain felt his confusion mounting as she sat there silently for several moments, as if holding back a wave of grief through sheer force of will. Was she still feeling as though she'd failed him? He found himself floundering, wondering how to console her, when she opened her eyes and fixed him with a sad but determined expression.

"She is a lucky woman," Cauthrien said. "I hope she appreciates her fortune. Your esteem is difficult to earn, but more priceless than gold. That she has so earned it speaks well of her. I am glad now that I did not fight her."

Loghain shook his head, still puzzled by Cauthrien's odd shift in mood. "It is I who am the lucky one. Moira deserves better than a broken down war horse with damaged honor."

Cauthrien shook her head, and seemed near tears again. "I don't think you understand," she said. "You are – " She shook her head, and whatever she was about to say remained unsaid. "I am glad that you have found happiness at last, my lord," she continued, after a long pause. "If I may overstep my boundaries, you've been alone for so long, ever since Teyrna Celia passed on. It pleases me to see you finding love again, and with a woman who deserves you. You have given so much to Ferelden, and never spared a thought for yourself. It's high time you allowed yourself to be happy." She sniffed, and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.

Loghain stared at her, puzzlement warring with incredulity at Cauthrien's unexpected declaration. He'd never thought her to be so invested in his personal happiness. His thoughts were disrupted by the sound of crunching gravel and the lurching of the carriage as it pulled to a halt – they must have reached the palace. He realized he'd never actually extended an offer of service to her during the ride.

"Cauthrien, there is a place for you in my house if you would have it," he said. "Ser Threnn came to me today, to pledge her oath of fealty. As far as I am concerned, you are my lieutenant for as long as you choose to be. If you would like to return to Gwaren with Threnn and the others, you are welcome to do so. I will need people I can trust to attend to the teyrnir in my absence."

"I – you mean it?" Cauthrien's voice was disbelieving. "I – yes, my lord. It would be my honor!"

"Of course I mean it," he said with gruff amusement. "Go on and get yourself cleaned up, and then find Threnn. There's always a place for you at my side."

An odd, strangled look passed across her face, and again Loghain wondered at her queer mood; but then the moment passed, and Cauthrien snapped her fist to her breast in a sharp salute, her military precision incongruous with the rest of her appearance. "I am honored, my lord. You won't regret it."

Loghain paid the driver and watched the carriage trundle down the street, alone with his muddled thoughts for the first time since the gaol. Cauthrien's words gnawed at him, though he could not say exactly why. He had not realized that she'd known about Moira and him – did everyone in Denerim know, despite their efforts to be discreet? Again he wondered why it bothered him – he was certainly not _ashamed_ of Moira, and so why should he feel so uncomfortable when others realized the truth of his feelings for her?

He continued to stew as he made his way into the palace, entering through the kitchens and taking the least-trafficked path back to the family wing, unwilling to entertain the thought of idle conversation. He reached the door to his chambers and slipped inside, collapsing into a large squashy chair beside the fireplace and resting his head wearily in his hands. He came to the unpleasant realization that he had been avoiding Moira not merely out of concern for her reputation, but because he knew that cementing their 'relationship' in the public eye would only make what he needed to do even harder.

She was everything he was not: gentle, kind, passionate, generous. She was a true hero; a woman who had sacrificed everything for Ferelden, and lived to tell the tale only through the grace of the Maker. And now she was free at last – free of the taint, and free of the Grey Wardens' bondage. She was free to do whatever she pleased, with whomever she pleased. She should not feel obligated to waste her freedom on him out of a lingering sense of kindness or commitment. He needed to let her go.

Heaving a weary sigh, he reluctantly roused himself from the chair. The sooner he had this conversation, the better – it was not fair to Moira otherwise. Let her not spend another day feeling a sense of duty to a man who could offer her nothing.

A painful stab of irony pierced him as he stood before the door to her chambers, hesitating. Had she felt this nervous when she'd knocked on his door in Redcliffe, seeking his company? Had she stood there for minutes, doubting and second-guessing and fretting? He pushed the memory forcefully from his mind before he lost all resolve, and pounded firmly on the door. No – it would not be fair to her if he wavered now, best it get it done and over with –

She opened the door, and his heart nearly failed him. She stood there, clad in a fashionable but loose-fitting dress, and the smile that blossomed on her face when she saw who stood at her door nearly did him in.

"Loghain!" She wrapped him in an embrace before he could respond, and the feel of her body against him, warm and soft through the thin fabric of her dress, ignited his blood and roused his passion. He enfolded her in his arms and nestled his face into her hair, the sweet floral scent of her bath filling his nose. A crushing pressure filled his chest, and he thought he might burst of love for her. He squeezed her tight against him, knowing what had to be done and hating himself for it already.

She pulled away from his embrace just enough to look at him, her hazel eyes warm with affection. "Where have you been? I've barely seen you at all since the day I awoke! Maker, how I've missed you!" She moved closer, as though to kiss him, and, with all the fortitude he could muster, he placed his hands gently but firmly on her shoulders.

Maker, how beautiful she was! She'd never been a woman for unnecessary frippery, and even in her fine dress, she was simply adorned, her dark auburn hair drawn back in a simple plait, her fair skin unblemished by the excessive amounts of rouge favored by most of her noble peers. His throat tightened as he knew the time for postponing what he needed to say had come to an end; he told himself again that she deserved so much more than what he could give her. Knowing that she would be better off without him was the only thing that made his hateful duty bearable.

"Moira," he began, immediately frustrated with how tremulous his voice sounded. He cleared his throat loudly, and he saw the change in her eyes at once – her joy at seeing him was fading slowly, replaced by wariness and concern.

"Loghain, what's wrong? What's happened?" She placed her hands over his, and the cool touch of her soft skin sent an electric jolt through his blood. He closed his eyes and sighed, and knew that tarrying would only make things infinitely worse.

"Moira, there is no easy way to say this, so I'll just out with it." He opened his eyes, beholding her now-anxious face, and became idly aware, for the first time that night, that he could not feel her presence in the taint. "The Sacred Ashes have brought you back to us, for which I am profoundly grateful. I was happy to undertake the pilgrimage, and I would do it again, a thousand times if I must. It seems they have also cured you of the taint. You understand what that means, don't you? You're free, Moira. Free of the Grey Wardens. Free to be the woman you were born to be – a noblewoman of import, a Cousland, a warrior. Free to make the future you've always dreamed of."

She squeezed his hands, and dared a soft smile. "I haven't felt the corruption since I awoke," she whispered. "I'm still not even sure I believe it. I hated being a Grey Warden so much, and I hated that the taint took my future away. It seems too much to hope that it could really be gone."

"I cannot feel you through the taint any longer, Moira," he said, his voice heavy with finality. "The corruption is gone. You are well and whole again. And I want you to make a life for yourself – the life you deserve." He sighed, and willed himself not to falter now. "What you deserve is far more than a broken, dishonored traitor can possibly offer, a Grey Warden with tainted blood who faces what are likely to be his final years. I cannot in good conscience expect you to remain tied in any way to me, not when any such association will sully your reputation. You deserve a man of honor, a man who will not shame you with the weight of his sins. I won't drag you down into the mire with me for my own selfish desires. I want you to be happy, Moira, and you'll be far happier without me."

She stared at him wildly, her eyes wide with shock. He'd expected the confession to feel liberating, final – Maker knew he'd never hesitated to make difficult, painful decisions before. In the past, when he'd made such choices, he'd always felt a sense of relief afterwards, as of a weight lifting from his shoulders. Why was this so different? Why did he feel so much more wretched, so much worse than before?

"You don't want to be with me?" Her voice was smaller and more fearful than he'd ever heard from her, and again a keen sense of misery knifed through him. The pain in her face was unbearable, and he hastened to correct her – of course he wanted to be with her, but he knew she needed more than he could offer her. Why didn't she understand?

"Moira, that is not – of course I want to be with you!" he said urgently. "That is the entire point – what I want is not important! You matter to me, Moira, more than anything else in this world, and I won't see you harmed on my behalf! If that means I must let you go, then so be it."

She stared at him, the anguish in her eyes slamming into his resolve like a battering ram. Maker, he hadn't meant to upset her so – surely she should agree that a relationship with him was untenable?

"You won't see me harmed?" she said, and this time, her voice was edged with anger. "You won't see me harmed, and so you'll end things with me to – what, Loghain? How is breaking my heart supposed to keep from 'harming me'?"

"Don't you see what I am?" he said, his own voice emphatic. "You saw how well I am regarded when you attended Eamon's hearing – I am a pariah, and deservedly so! I know now that what I did has ruined my reputation and stained my honor, perhaps irreparably so! I am willing to pay the price for my sins, but I am not willing to see you pay the price along with me! You deserve far better than that! You deserve a man who will not shame you!"

"Is that what you think?" she challenged hotly, the anguish and shock on her features transforming into ire. "You think I am _ashamed_ of you? You think I give two bits what Eamon or his ilk think of you, or me? I have never cared about any of that rot, Loghain! Not before the Blight, and not now! Do you know what I always wanted? A family! A life, with someone I love! I love you, Loghain. I love _you_." Tears slipped down her face, and she swiped angrily at her eyes, brushing them away with brusque indignance.

"You wanted a life," he said gently, feeling oddly heartened by her anger. He could bear her anger far easier than he could bear her anguish. "You wanted a family, a husband, children. You can have those things now, Moira, don't you see? But not with me. You told me once that the taint prevents Wardens from bearing children, or from fathering them. I cannot give you what you want. I'm an old man, and a Grey Warden. The taint will claim me, and you will have lost your chance at what you want most. Why would you shackle yourself to me, knowing what my future holds?"

A strange expression crossed her face, and she looked at him with a sudden, wild rapture that confused him. "Loghain – Maker, I've been a _fool_! Do you see what this means?"

He had to admit that he did not. "What _what_ means, Moira?"

"All I have to do is go back to Haven – if the ashes cure the darkspawn taint, then they will cure you as well!" She smiled at him brightly, wildly, her anger forgotten in the light of her epiphany. "I'll go. I'll leave tomorrow – I've had enough of bloody balls for a lifetime, anyway. I'll go get another pinch of the ashes, and I'll cure you! Then nothing will keep us apart!"

Oh, Maker bless her. He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut against an impossible surge of emotion. Of course that was what she'd thought of – that she should share her fortune with him. A rebellious voice at the back of his mind whispered that her idea was not so farfetched, and presented a perfect solution to their dilemma – but no, this was missing the point, which was that he was not at all suited for her.

"Moira, you can't – what if they are no longer there? I won't see you go on a fool's errand on my behalf –"

"Loghain." Her voice carried the aura of command that she'd so often invoked during the Blight, and it cut through his musings. He opened his eyes to find her utterly transformed – no longer anguished, aggrieved, or indignant, she stood before him, her eyes blazing with the fire that had reignited his cold, dormant heart all those months ago. His throat tightened with emotion, and he gazed in awe at her, his brazen woman, his best and only friend, his companion, his fellow warrior, his lover.

"I'm going to find the ashes again." Her voice brooked no argument. "I'm going to cure you of the taint, as you cured me. I know now that it can be done, and I will do it. I am not going to let anything come between us – not the taint, not the Grey Wardens, not the nobility, _nothing_. You are mine, and I love you, and I won't let you go without a fight, Maker damn you." Her voice wavered and broke at the last, though her eyes burned with the same determination he'd seen on the battlements of Fort Drakon, when she'd stood against Hell itself and prevailed. It was that gaze – full of fire, full of resolution, and full of unbridled, undisguised love – that destroyed the last of his crumbling defenses.

The emotion he'd kept at bay broke free at last, and he sagged against the weight of his overwhelming relief in sweet surrender. He did not know if he reached out to her, or she to him, but at once they were wrapped in each other's arms, both trembling with months of unexpressed need.

"I'm sorry," he whispered brokenly into her sweet-smelling hair. "I would never hurt you, Moira, never. I love you more than words can possibly say. I only want you to be happy. I want you to have everything, and I know I can't give you –"

She shushed him fiercely, pressing her face into his neck, the hot moisture of her tears dampening his skin. "You still don't understand, you thick-headed, impossibly stubborn man! There is nothing I want that you can't give me. What I want is _you_. That's all – just you, in all your obstinate, scowling, sullen ways. You're a grumpy, pig-headed, surly bear of a man, but you're _my_ surly grumpy bear. And the Grey Wardens cannot have you." She pulled back, her eyes bright with emotion, and leaned in to place an impossibly soft kiss against his lips. "The darkspawn cannot have you." She kissed him again. "Because you're mine." He found, as he held her tight, his hands digging into her soft curves and molding her against him as though they were one, that he could not argue.

"As you are mine," he replied, his voice husky with emotion, his hands sliding lower to grasp her firm rear and pull her even closer against him. "Maker, Moira, I'm a fool. Forgive me. I only wanted to do right by you. I can't bear to think of you suffering because of me."

"Oh, Loghain," she whispered, and pulled away, her hands traveling to his face to cup his cheeks, her soft fingertips tracing the sharp contours of his cheekbones. "I would suffer so much more without you, you stupid, sweet, silly man. We fought the Blight together, for the Maker's sake – whatever else life throws at us, we'll fight that together, too."

The passion of her declaration, the memory of her soft lips against his, the feel of her, warm and pliant in his arms, her soft curves pressed flush against him – all of it stirred in him a heady, overpowering desire, and he was reminded at once that he had not made love to her in months. The last time they'd been together had been in an army tent, before the battle of Denerim, and it had been a quick, frantic coupling, driven by desperation and marred by preoccupation with the dreadful fate that awaited them. He'd feared, in the months afterward, that perhaps he had just been a momentary distraction for her; someone to take her mind from the fear and terror of her impending doom, a body with which to find physical release, a convenient and willing partner to allow her to experience sexual intimacy before she died a hallowed but virginal hero.

Now, he knew that was not true – she loved him, truly loved him, as he did her, against all the odds, against all logic and sense. She had no reason in the world to wish to be with him, and every reason to disassociate herself from their entanglement; and yet she stayed, and proclaimed her love. Maker, what had he ever done to deserve her? What could he possibly do to show her the extent of his affection?

Well. He had some ideas on that front, at least.

His desire now a constant, aching throb in his belly, he roved his hungry gaze over her body, drinking in every detail. Her auburn hair was coming loose from its plait, and a soft strand tickled tantalizingly against her right ear. With a deliberate finger, he tucked it behind her ear, his touch lingering against the shell of her earlobe, ghosting across the delicate skin. He watched in pleasure as she closed her eyes and shivered involuntarily at his touch, her full eyelashes fluttering shut in bliss, her eyebrows creasing together in a furrow. Her full lips were only just parted, and he longed to press his against them, to devour her until she surrendered to him, her mouth opening to admit his plundering tongue. But not just yet. His eyes drifted down, taking in her trim form, every curve visible beneath the silken fabric of her dark green dress. It was a flattering color, and suited her; he would have to be certain to tell her later. Much later. He found that he cared very little about her garments right now.

"You don't know how beautiful you are," he breathed. It was a compliment, but also a truth; he did not think she truly understood how lovely she was to him. "Let me show you."

She gasped, a little breathy "oh," and her eyes opened to meet his. Maker, he could die looking into those eyes – greenish brown, afire with undisguised passion and love. He loved how open and unguarded she was, how plain her desires were writ across her face. He had always been a reticent man, reluctant to show emotion, but she was, as in all things, his opposite – and in her face, he saw plainly her love and her desire for him. Did she know how fervently he shared her feelings? If not, she soon would.

He drew her close again, and this time allowed his lips to claim hers as his hands ventured across her back, finding the clasps of her satiny dress. Her mouth was sweet and eager, and she opened to him at once, his tongue gently but assertively exploring her depths, tracing every contour and valley. His fingers found what they sought, and he untied the lacing along the back of her dress and pulled it apart, swallowing her whimper of pleasure against his mouth as the dress slid free of her shoulders. He eased his tongue from her mouth, allowing his lips to linger against hers for a moment longer than necessary before departing with a final, heated kiss, and pulled back to look at her. A throb of painful desire lanced through him as he took in the sight of her, fair skin flushed and pink, lips swollen, bare alabaster shoulders exposed in her state of half-dishabille, the neckline of her dress fallen perilously low, revealing the tops of her breasts.

"If only you could see yourself with my eyes, Moira," he breathed. "You would never again doubt that I am the most fortunate man in Thedas."

She looked at him with an expression of such intense longing that he felt a pang in his heart; but then she was against him, her hands tangling through his hair and scrabbling down the hard plane of his back.

"And if you could see yourself through my eyes, Loghain Mac Tir," she breathed, her hands hitching the hem of his shirt from his trousers, "you would understand why I cannot ever let you go." With a quick, assertive tug, she brought his shirt up and over his head, and he raised his arms compliantly to allow her to remove it entirely. She sighed blissfully as he stood before her bare-chested, and she pressed her face against him, running her fingers lightly through the dark hair that dusted his chest and belly.

The sensation of her fingers against his bare skin sent a jolt of molten desire straight to his groin, and he felt his cock grow harder at her touch. With a growl, he pushed her gently but firmly away, and busied his own hands behind her, taking her loose dress and pulling it down past her hips until it pooled in a green puddle at her feet. She stood before him now clad in nothing but a corset and smallclothes, and he was suddenly very tired of standing.

"Come," he said, sweeping her up into his arms. She yelped in surprise and wrapped her arms around his neck as he carried her over to the bed, supporting her weight with one arm as he impatiently tugged the blankets down. He lay her tenderly across the bed, her lithe body unfurling beneath him, smooth legs spreading open in unconscious desire. She was the most erotic vision he'd ever beheld, and he thought he might burst from wanting her. Maker, how he needed to bury his cock inside her, to dive into her sleek wet center until he released all his months-worth of longing and agony and pent-up desire. How he longed to sheath himself in her, to come inside her after months of imagining her beneath him while he took himself in hand, her name a prayer on his lips as he spilled his seed inside her –

But not yet. He would wait, even if it killed him – tonight, he was going to show her how much he loved her.

"You are a vision," he murmured, his roughened hands roving over her soft, creamy skin. "A vision from the Maker." He descended on her, his lips claiming hers in a passionate kiss before he pulled away. He smiled wickedly against the skin of her neck at her whimper of disappointment before placing a slow, languorous kiss against her pulse, beating a wild tattoo beneath his lips. With tender deliberation, he sucked the soft skin of her neck, her shoulders, and her collarbone, making his way slowly downward in a trail of kisses, before he reached the top of her breast. Her breasts were held firmly in place by the corset, and Loghain growled in consternation at the offending garment. With surprisingly deft hands, he unlaced the front of the corset and spread it open, revealing her small, firm breasts to him.

"Maker's breath," he whispered, tugging the corset away and flinging it carelessly to the floor behind him. How long it had been since he'd seen her so, naked and trembling beneath him. He traced a reverent path along her bare torso until his large hands engulfed her breasts, cupping them gently. Her nipples peaked into his palms and he slid them between his fingers, a wry, self-satisfied smile tugging at his mouth as he heard her frantic gasps of pleasure beneath him. He rolled his thumbs across the rosy buds, enjoying her ragged moans, before descending to her breast and flitting his tongue against her. He thrilled at the sharp cry of pleasure his lips elicited as he sucked her nipple into his mouth, nipping gently with his teeth as he rolled the other peak between his thumb and finger. She groaned in frantic desperation, and he took pity on her for a brief moment as he released her nipple with a final, smacking kiss before trailing his tongue across the plane of her chest between her breasts to deliver the same treatment to its counterpart. He sucked and nipped at her until she clutched at his hair with tugging, beseeching hands.

"Maker, Loghain, stop tormenting me," she moaned. "You're driving me mad. I need you now."

Her plea sent a throb of desire straight to his cock, but he still needed to pleasure her before he indulged himself. "Patience, my love," he whispered against her slick breast. "I'm not done with you yet." He placed a soft trail of kisses beneath her breasts and down her belly, pausing to swirl his tongue inside the tiny button of her navel, before coming to a rest at the band of her smallclothes.

Maker, she was already wet for him – her smallclothes clung to her folds, damp and sticky with desire. He could smell her arousal even through the garment, and he felt his cock twitch in response. Without further ado, he slipped his hands beneath the band and slid her smallclothes down her hips and tugged them off; if he didn't move things along, he wouldn't last long enough to enjoy sinking himself into her. She whimpered in need as he removed her last barrier, and then she moaned in pleasure when his fingers tangled in the damp coppery hair between her legs.

When he leaned in to nuzzle his nose into her nest of curls, she gasped, her fingers raking across his scalp. "What are you doing?" she whispered in a strangled voice which managed to be both curious and pleading at once.

He glanced up from between her legs, surveying the curves of her body from his rather delightful vantage point. His eyes met hers, and in hers he saw anticipation and desire. He could not resist a wicked grin as he turned to place a soft, languid kiss against the heated skin of her inner thigh.

"I'm going to make you come," he said, and lowered his mouth to her wet center to place a hot, slow kiss against her slick folds.

Her nails raked a painful path along his scalp, but her cry of pure pleasure was entirely worth whatever discomfort he suffered. He dragged his tongue lazily across her slit, his hands sliding purposefully across her thighs to rest at her hips, holding her in place as she bucked against his mouth. He dipped his tongue into her cunt again and again, tasting her sweet nectar, drinking his fill of her sweet desire. She trembled against him, her thighs shaking as her muscles turned to jelly beneath his onslaught. He quickened the pace of his tongue as she gasped raggedly above him, her breathy, frantic voice crying out his name interspersed with little blasphemies and exhortations to the Maker. He knew she was close, and he sucked hard against her center, moving his hand from her thigh to slide a pair of fingers into her slick, ready folds. She moaned in pleasure, and he knew she was close, so close…

Moving his fingers rhythmically inside her, he sucked and kissed his way up her slit until he reached her small nub of desire. Brushing against it with his lips, he sucked it into his mouth at once, hard. Her body convulsed violently beneath him, and she snatched at his head with clawing hands as a cry of ecstasy ripped from her throat. He held her hips tight as she rode out her release, her body quaking and shuddering as the waves of pure pleasure crashed over her, and, when she finally collapsed back onto the bed, he placed a soft, final kiss against her center before climbing back up the bed above her.

She started at him with wild, lust-clouded eyes. "Maker… Loghain. That was incredible." Her voice was weak and spent, and he chuckled, leaning in to place a kiss against her mouth. He wondered if she could taste herself on his lips.

"I've wanted to do that for ages," he murmured, bracing himself above her with one hand while the other trailed lazily down her sweat-slick skin. "You taste divine."

"Then let me return the favor," she offered boldly. Loghain stared at her, shocked and more than a little aroused – he hadn't expected her to want to…

"Not now," he said roughly, her words reminding him of the perilous condition of his poor, neglected cock. "One day, certainly, but not now. Tonight, I'm going to have you." He rocked back onto his knees, and with shaking hands unlaced his trousers. Moira propped herself up on her elbows, her eyes greedily staring at his hands as he finished unlacing his trousers and slipped them down his thighs to reveal his rock hard cock.

If her boldness had surprised him before, he should have at least been prepared for it by now; but even so, he was startled when her hand darted out to wrap around his rigid member, her soft pliant fingers stroking him firmly. He very nearly came then and there, and with a strangled gasp he seized her wrist and gently but firmly pried her hand away from his cock.

"Not if you don't want this to end right now," he managed. Her eyes glimmered with mirth, and she chuckled as she relented, sliding her hands up his muscular arms to rest against his shoulders.

"I certainly don't want that," she murmured, leaning in to seize his mouth with hers. Pulling away, she paused to look meaningfully into his eyes, her mirth replaced by a solemn, tender look of love and longing.

"I love you, Loghain," she whispered. "I was so scared to lose you before, but I was certain that the Blight – and the taint – would never truly let us be together, or be happy. But we survived the Blight, and we can be free of the Grey Wardens – free to be together. I want nothing more."

He returned her gentle gaze, willing himself to let down his guard utterly and completely, to make his boundless love for her evident in his own eyes. "And I love you, Moira," he said, resting his forehead against hers. "I've been a great fool – I only wanted to spare you pain and heartache, but I didn't imagine – I didn't dare hope – that you returned my affection so thoroughly. Whatever the future holds, I don't intend to let you go."

There was nothing more that could be said – not at that moment, at least – and so Loghain placed his lips against hers gently and tenderly as he lowered her to the bed. A sudden thought occurred to him, and he wrapped her in his arms and rolled her over so that they lay on their sides.

"Do you trust me?" he whispered, his face inches from hers.

She frowned. "You know I trust you with my life."

He smiled, a faint ghost of a wry half-smile. "Then follow my lead." Gathering her into his arms, he rolled them over again, but this time he was on his back, and she lay atop him.

He felt the stiffness of his cock poking into her belly, and placed his hands on her hips so that she shifted down his body, his cock now brushing against the thatch of curls at her juncture.

"I want to watch you while you fuck me," he said, and her eyes widened.

"Loghain, I – I'm not sure how to move –"

He laughed, her endearing combination of boldness and innocence never failing to enchant him. "You'll figure it out," he said, his hands coming to a rest against her hips as he positioned her above his cock. "Move with me. I want to feel you on top of me, taking my cock."

Her remaining hesitation melted away with his words, and she fixed him with dark, lust-filled eyes.

"Maker, Loghain, what you do to me –" She braced her hands against him, her palms flush against the broad expanse of his chest, as she lowered herself slowly onto him. She gasped as he filled her, the months of their separation keenly felt by them both as Loghain threw his head back against the pillow and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, calling upon every fiber of his willpower not to spill himself in her right then and there. Maker's balls, he'd forgotten how snug and wet she was, and it had been so long, so long since he'd been wrapped in her sweet heat –

"Loghain," she gasped more than spoke his name, and her own eyes fluttered closed in bliss as she impaled herself on his manhood, sinking down until her thighs rested against his. His heart pounded wildly in his chest as he reveled in the feel of being surrounded by her, filling her velvet center with his manhood. Then she slowly, experimentally, began to move, and he was lost.

His fists grabbed bunches of blankets and clenched them in a white-knuckled grip as she rocked against him, at first slowly, hesitantly, but then with increasing rhythm and confidence. He thought he might explode – no – he thought he might die – she felt so _good_ , so Maker-damned _good_ , and it was all he could do not to come, but no, he needed to last, to make their reunion worthy of the name –

Moira leaned forward and rocked her hips against his, and then, with a jubilant cry, she threw her head back and began to move faster. Loghain dared to open his eyes, and when he looked upon her, he beheld his very own goddess – her legs straddling him, riding him hard, her creamy skin flushed and sweat-slick, pert breasts bouncing with the rhythm of her thrusts, her head thrown back, her face a mask of pure bliss, her auburn hair streaming behind her. She was the most beautiful, the most radiant, the most wonderful woman he'd ever seen. His heart burst open and he knew he could never spend his life apart from her, come what may.

His release came upon him at once, and he pressed into her, his arms wrapping around her as he buried his face between her breasts, hips thrusting violently up from the bed and into her as he spilled himself inside her with a strangled cry. His hand slid down her sweat-soaked back to grasp her arse, and he pressed her hard against him as he thrust wildly into her. With a shuddering gasp, her own release broke across her, and she clung to him tremulously as the waves subsumed her. They remained like that for some time: entwined, spent, slick and sated, their limbs a tangled jumble, their breath mingling as they gasped in exhaustion. At last, boneless, they collapsed to the bed together in a heap, and Moira nestled her head against his chest, her arm draped across him, fingers linked with his.

His eyelids drooped heavily as the weight of the day's events pressed down on him. Still, he did not want to drift into sleep without reminding Moira that he loved her dearly, that she need not worry about his ridiculous notion of leaving her for her own good, that he'd been a fool to imagine that she would want him to leave her. He turned his head to regard her, and placed a soft kiss against the crown of her head.

"Moira," he began, but a soft grunted snore interrupted his soliloquy. He smiled, and nestled his face against her hair again as he allowed the fatigue to overcome him.

"Good night, Moira," he murmured, as he drifted into a deep, contented sleep.


	19. A Promise, and a Warning

Moira stuffed another tunic in her traveling pack, her mind making a quick inventory of the items already inside. Hardy clothes for the road, provisions of bread and cheese, a spare blade in case anything should happen to her sword – enough gear to see her safely to Haven and back. Settling the pack across her shoulders, she made her way silently through the corridors of the palace, deserted in the predawn hours, hoping to find a good horse in the stables and get on the road before any busybodies could question her absence.

Loghain knew she was leaving, though he'd argued with her the night before. She shook her head at the thought of her stubborn, bull-headed lover. He'd continued to insist that Moira should not make such a trip just for him, that the taint was the penance she'd issued him at the Landsmeet and that he was therefore duty-bound to bear it. Silly man! Did he think that she would be content to allow him to suffer the Grey Wardens' poison, now that she knew that there was a cure?

She'd wondered at the time why he hadn't simply grabbed a pinch for himself, but she reminded herself that neither he nor Leliana could have known that the ashes were capable of curing the taint. And even if they had known… would he have? She couldn't tell how much of his bluster was because he really believed he owed the Wardens his service, or because he did not want Moira making a dangerous trip just for his sake.

She wondered what she would have done if she had known the ashes could cure her taint when she'd first ventured to the temple to retrieve them for Eamon. Would she have taken some for herself, then? Would she have used them, even in the midst of the Blight? The thought sobered her.

As much as she hated what Duncan had done to her, how he'd forced her to abandon Highever and lied to her about what the Joining would do to her… she had to admit that the Wardens _did_ serve a purpose. Without her – without their sacrifice – the Archdemon would have continued its rampage unabated, the Blight left unchecked to spread its devastation across Ferelden and beyond. Her homeland would have been laid to waste, its picturesque verdant hills blackened and spoiled forever, stripped bare of all life. Because of her… because she'd been a Grey Warden… she'd been able to save her beloved Ferelden. She could never regret that, as much as she resented the Wardens for their deception.

But she had done what had been required of her. She'd killed the Archdemon and ended the Blight. And now, thanks to Loghain, she was free of the taint, free of the chains the Wardens had bound to her at the Joining – free to make her own life, her own future, free to live out her days without fearing the inevitable doom of the Calling. And the man she loved… she had the power to free him from such a fate, too. How could she ever live with herself if she condemned him to die slowly of the same poison that no longer polluted her veins?

Andraste would understand, or, at least, Moira hoped She would. She knew that she had to be careful – if word of the ashes got out, there would be an endless stampede of pilgrims to Haven, and even the Maker's Bride had a finite amount of remains to go around. The sleepy village of Haven would become the most hotly contested acreage since the Dales – and in the aftermath of the Blight, would Orlais see Ferelden's weakened state and decide to "reclaim" the Frostbacks in the name of the Empress, in order to "properly secure" such a holy site in the name of the Chantry in Val Royeaux? Moira was not keen to find out.

That was why she had told no one except Loghain and Fergus that she was going back to Haven. Only a few knew about the miraculous properties of the ashes, and she needed to keep it that way. Perhaps someday Thedas would be ready to learn of the final resting place of the Lady, but Moira did not think that day had come.

She entered the stables quickly and quietly, and selected a sleek, muscular horse who looked hardy enough to capably endure a journey to the mountains. She made her way towards the tack room, seeking a saddle to prepare her mount for the journey, when her eyes caught a flash of swift movement in the shadows. Hand dropping warily to her traveling blade, she froze, eyes searching for the source of the disturbance.

A soft, accented chuckle reached her ears, and Leliana stepped out of the darkness, slipping a cowl from her head. "You're awfully nervous, even here in the safety of the royal stables. Old habits die hard, I suppose. I understand completely."

Moira released a shaky breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Oh, Leliana, it's just you," she said, relieved. "Forgive me. I'm… well, I was trying to get out of here before anyone noticed I'd gone, to tell the truth."

Leliana smiled. "You'll have to try harder than that if you want to keep secrets from a bard," she said. Her countenance sobered as she regarded Moira thoughtfully. "You're going to Haven, aren't you?"

"How did you –?"

"I've been expecting it ever since the Sacred Ashes cured you of your taint," Leliana replied. "You're going to get some for him, aren't you?"

Moira opened and closed her mouth several times before she realized it was utterly pointless to obfuscate to a friend who was clearly one step ahead of her as it was. "I can't let the Blight take him, Leliana," she said quietly. "I love him. Now that I know the ashes can cure Grey Wardens of the taint, I can't let him – I can't let it poison his blood and turn him into a monster."

"I understand," Leliana replied gently. "But there is no need for you to go to Haven."

Moira stared at her, baffled. "What? But I can't let him suffer – you said you understood –"

"I do," Leliana said. "But what you seek is not in Haven. Not anymore." Leliana's eyes were strangely bright as she slipped a hand into a pouch at her belt and withdrew a tiny bag, tied tightly with a leather strap. She handed it to Moira, who took it with a slowly dawning comprehension.

"You took the ashes?" Moira's voice was a whisper as her fingers closed reverently around the small bag, hands trembling as she realized the sacred significance of what she held.

"When I returned to the temple, with Loghain, I remained in the chamber after he had taken the ashes, to pray in the presence of Andraste. I had another vision." There was an urgency to Leliana's voice that Moira had never before heard from her friend. "Moira, you cannot trust the Grey Wardens. I saw Warden mages performing a dark ritual in the chamber of the Sacred Ashes. They were sacrificing a woman… and there was a monster with them. A darkspawn lord, perhaps, if the darkspawn have such things." She fixed Moira with a penetrating gaze. "I think the vision was trying to tell me that the Grey Wardens will desecrate the ashes. I did not recognize the woman, but she was in the chamber of Sacred Ashes – I think she was meant to represent Andraste, and that this Warden ritual will use Her ashes as part of some dark sacrifice."

Moira felt a chill of dread apprehension creep along her spine. She had never been entirely certain whether she believed in Leliana's vision in Lothering – she believed that Leliana believed in it, certainly, but she'd never made up her mind whether she really believed it to be "true." It had never seemed very important – whether or not Leliana had had a "real" vision from the Maker, she had always been a loyal and true friend, and that was what mattered to Moira. But now… she could see that Leliana once again utterly believed in the veracity of her vision. And Moira knew as well as her friend that the Sacred Ashes were indisputably real – she was living evidence of that. She remembered how, in the temple, she'd felt so serene, so peaceful, as though she had truly been in the presence of the Maker's Bride. If the ashes were real, then why not Leliana's vision?

"You're sure?" Moira said, her hand curling protectively around the ashes in response to her friend's words. "I mean – not that you had a vision, but about what you saw? It was definitely the Grey Wardens? And they were desecrating Andraste's ashes? How can you be certain?"

Leliana shook her head. "I cannot be _certain_ about the meaning, but how else to explain it? I _am_ certain the mages were Grey Wardens – they wore griffon armor across their robes. What else could such a thing mean in a vision?"

Moira had no answers. "So you're saying that Haven isn't safe?"

"Not for the ashes. Not anymore. I have to believe that I was given the vision for a reason. And if the Grey Wardens are not to be trusted, then… I have to keep them safe. I have to keep _Her_ safe."

Moira's eyes widened as the implication of Leliana's words hit her fully. "You're going to hide them."

Leliana's eyes flashed. "You _mustn't_ tell anyone, Moira! Loghain will figure it out once he realizes you didn't need to go to Haven to bring the ashes for him, but too many people already know – Brother Genitivi, the rest of our companions, and everyone who knows how you were healed from your sickness. It will not take long before others move in – the Chantry, Ferelden, Orlais – and if that happens, then it will not take long before the ashes disappear, stolen by anyone who seeks to use them to further an agenda. Perhaps even by the Grey Wardens. If the Maker tasked me with keeping the ashes safe, then no one can know that I took them. You have to promise me you'll keep this secret, Moira. Please."

Moira realized the importance of the confidence with which Leliana had entrusted her, and her throat tightened with a knot of emotion for her friend. Leliana could have departed and taken her secret with her, and if her vision was true, she risked much by confiding in anyone, even Moira. Moira was touched that the bard trusted her so completely.

"You didn't have to tell me," Moira said softly, reaching out and placing a hand on Leliana's shoulder. "You didn't have to give me a pinch of the ashes – you don't owe Loghain anything. You came back for me – for him."

Leliana shook her head. "I know how much he means to you. And he is a good man – I was with him in the temple. He loves you so much, Moira." She smiled shyly. "I suppose I'm still a romantic at heart. If I can help two of my friends have a good life together, then I will do whatever I can."

Overcome, Moira drew her friend into a tight embrace, not trusting herself to words.

"Thank you," she whispered into Leliana's hair. She had just pulled back from the embrace when a thought occurred to her.

"Where will you hide the ashes, if you've taken them from the temple?"

Leliana offered her a coy smile. "Now that is something I think I will keep to myself. For your sake as well as mine." Her smile faded. "I don't think I should wait any longer. I need to take the ashes out of here before anyone starts to ask questions. Don't worry," she said, her smile returning. "I'll be sure to return in time for the wedding." With a wink, she turned, slipping silently towards the stable doors.

"Thank you, Leliana," Moira said, her heart hammering at the implications of her friend's jest.

"Of course. Now go and take care of Loghain, before you accidentally misplace Our Lady."

* * *

Moira stretched languorously, her legs twining against Loghain's as she brushed a strand of sweat-damp hair from her eyes. "I'm glad that Andraste decided to preserve your impressive Grey Warden stamina," she purred appreciatively, placing a kiss against his shoulder.

"Hmph. Who said anything about the Grey Wardens?" he said slyly. "Being rid of the Warden curse has hardly abated my passion for you."

"I'm glad to hear it." She sighed and nestled her head into the crook of his neck. Loghain had been surprised and somewhat reluctant when she'd shown him the ashes, and it had taken some convincing from her to persuade him to accept the gift Leliana had given them. He had not wanted to undermine Moira's judgment from the Landsmeet, but she would hear none of it.

"Loghain, I sentenced you to join the Grey Wardens to fight for Ferelden and end the Blight. You've done that," she argued. "The Blight is ended, and Ferelden is saved. Anora gave me the authority to decide your fate at the Landsmeet, and it is my decision that your oath is fulfilled." Her mood had softened, then, and she'd taken his hands in hers. "And I want the man I love at my side, for as many years as the Maker sees fit to give us. Is that so wrong?"

That, in the end, was what had persuaded him.

Moira had watched, entranced, as the ashes of Andraste cleansed her lover, heart and soul; she keenly recalled the sensation of the taint being drawn from her, the poison leaching from her blood and leaving her pure. Loghain's eyes had closed, though he did not seem to be in pain; she wondered if he felt the same odd tugging sensation as she had, as if the impurities were being wrung from his soul by the healing hands of Andraste Herself. At last, his face relaxed, and he opened his eyes, and his expression held a mixture of amazement and wonder.

"It's gone," he murmured. "I feel… clean. Like a dark shroud has been lifted from me."

Moira brushed away the tears that had sprung uninvited to her eyes. "The Grey Wardens don't own us anymore. You belong only to me, now, as I belong to you."

Those had been the last words spoken for some time.

Now, as Moira snuggled against Loghain's warm and muscular frame, she allowed herself to indulge in fantasies that the Blight and the Grey Warden curse had previously denied her. What would it be like to wake up every morning like this, nestled in Loghain's arms? To fall asleep in those arms, sated and contented, after a passionate night of lovemaking? To share a bed, a room, a home, a life with him? To bear his children?

Moira shook her head and snuggled deeper against him. _One thing at a time_ , she scolded herself. There was time enough for all of that. Time was something they had, now.

"I had a thought," he said, after several moments of silence.

"Oh? Just the one?" she teased, poking him playfully in the ribs.

"Har har. What a rapier wit you have." His hand drifted down her side to plant a gentle pinch against her bottom, turning her self-satisfied chuckle into a yelp of feigned indignation.

"Well?" she prompted, refraining from a retaliatory jab. "Do I get to hear this profound thought of yours or not?"

"I was thinking that perhaps it is time for me to return to Gwaren," he said. "I have been away for too long. I shamefully neglected my teyrnir during the madness of my regency, and though I have sent Threnn and Cauthrien to begin setting things to rights, I cannot continue to abdicate my responsibility to play at politics in Denerim."

Whatever Moira had been expecting him to say, it hadn't been that. She was beset by an unexpected wave of disappointment.

"Oh," she said. Realizing she'd done a poor job of concealing her reaction, she quickly rallied. "I mean, that's wonderful! I'm sure your lieges will be happy to see their lord."

He snorted. "I highly doubt it, given how unceremoniously I abandoned them during the Blight. The truth is that I have much to do to regain their trust. I think it is time for me to absent myself from Denerim for a while. Maker knows Anora's fledgling reign is fragile enough without my meddling. She needs to shore up her support among the nobles, and that will be easier accomplished without her pariah of a father underfoot."

Moira's heart hammered in her chest. Had she set him free from the Wardens' chains only to lose him to his other duty? She of all people knew how demanding the obligations of a teyrnir were. "I understand," she said quietly, hoping her distress was not evident in her voice.

"I was hoping you would come with me."

Moira, caught up in her own cresting sense of disappointment, took a moment to comprehend his words. When she did not respond, Loghain tensed beneath her and cursed.

"I'm sorry. I did not intend to ambush you," he said. "I just thought… you are under no obligation, of course. But Moira… I am not a casual man. I do not keep mistresses or dally with women for my own pleasure." He shifted uncomfortably, propping himself up on his elbow and avoiding her eyes. "If I am to continue an intimate relationship with you, I do not wish to sneak in and out of your bedchamber like a furtive lover. I do not want our relationship to be unclear or undefined, and thus subject to all manner of malicious gossip. I couldn't care less what the fools in the Landsmeet think of me, but I will not cheapen you by giving any man cause to call you my mistress, or worse."

Moira's heart continued to pound against her chest, no longer with dread, but rather anticipation. "Loghain, are you trying to say what I think you're trying to say?"

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his other hand. "I am sorry," he said. "I did not mean to make such a hash of this – all the times I rehearsed it in my mind, and it always went better than this. Maker's breath! Moira, if you do not wish such a commitment, I understand. I only ask that you tell me true. I despise uncertainty, and I cannot live a life of half measures."

She stared wildly at him, daring to hope. "Loghain, are you asking me to marry you?" A sudden fear that she had drastically misinterpreted his words gripped her, and she was seized with the terror that he would crush her heart with an embarrassed, stammered retraction as he tried to explain that no, that was not what he had been asking, but in fact, that he no longer wished to be entangled with her at all –

"If you would have me," he said gruffly. "If not, I want you to know that I bear you no ill will. I would never – "

Whatever declarations of honor he might have pledged were stifled by Moira's lips as she grabbed his head and pulled him roughly against her in a crushing embrace, her mouth seizing his in a frantic kiss. Moira was heedless of the warm tears that dampened her face as she clung to her lover, her hands roaming across the firm musculature of his back as she kissed him until they were both breathless.

"Maker, you are truly a fool, Loghain Mac Tir," she gasped against him. "How many times do I have to tell you I love you? How many times do I have to assure you that I want to share my life with you? How many ways must I say it?"

He chuckled ruefully, his face pressed into her sweat-damp tresses, and she detected more than a hint of relief in his rumbling laughter. He pulled back to regard her, and she was startled at the solemn sincerity in his eyes.

"I don't think I will ever truly accept my good fortune," he said simply. "It continues to amaze me that you want anything at all to do with me, let alone –" He broke off abruptly, and Moira thought, for a moment, that she saw a glimmer in his eyes, before he closed them with a small shake of his head.

"Maker's breath! I swore I would do this right, and now I've gone and completely ruined the whole moment." With a restless sigh, he sat up in the bed, drawing Moira with him. Taking her hands in his, he regarded her with a serious expression.

"Believe it or not, I'd planned on asking you the proper way," he said gruffly. "That's why I asked you to accompany me to Gwaren. There is a little spot a few miles away from the village, along the cliffs overlooking the sea. You can see the coastline disappearing into the mist to the north, and the sea waves crashing ceaselessly against the rocks below. It is a sight that would stir the Maker Himself to awe." He harrumphed to himself. "I was going to buy a ring here in Denerim, take you to the cliffs of Gwaren, and ask you there. But I suppose this will have to do, now that I've gone and bollocksed everything up." He straightened his shoulders, and Moira could not breathe in anticipation of his next words.

"Moira Cousland, will you do me the inimitable honor of becoming my wife?"

Moira looked into the face of the man she loved – the man who had just asked her to marry him. His was not a face most young women would find especially appealing. He was all planes and angles, a strong jaw and a furrowed brow framing features that many would call severe – his eyes, the color of an early spring morning, brooding and intense; his hawk-like nose, as prominent and craggy as the rest of him; his bow-shaped mouth, whose lips were often curled into an expression of impatient exasperation.

To Moira, it was the most handsome face in all of Thedas.

"Maker, do you even need to ask?" she cried, flinging her arms around his neck. With a laugh, she recalled the convolutions that had led to his proposal. "Yes, I suppose you do, after all that. Yes, Loghain, I will marry you. Yes, yes, a thousand times yes, you big oaf. Yes."

He laughed, and this time, there was no trace of self-deprecation – only joy. He gathered her into his arms and held her close, his large hands resting against the smooth planes of her back.

"Moira." Her name was a sigh, a prayer on his lips. "You will never truly know how happy you make me. Again and again I give you cause to be rid of me, and yet every time you refuse to see reason. I will never understand what about me you find so compelling, but I will never take your heart for granted. I swear it."

Moira sniffed, wiping away a stray tear as she curled into her lover's – her fiancé's – arms. "You'll have to try harder than that if you want to scare me away," she said. "I've lost so much in the past year, but when I'm with you, I feel…" She closed her eyes to the wave of pain that crashed over her, at the sudden and jarring realization that her parents would not get to see their only daughter's wedding.

"You've given me a future," she whispered against him. "You give me hope."

She felt his arms tighten around her, and his lips pressed a soft kiss against her hair. "You've given me that and more," he said. "I love you, Moira."

"And I love you, Loghain." The emotions of the day washed over her, and for the first time in many, many months, Moira felt an unbridled sense of hope. The Blight was over, she and Loghain had survived, and now they were both free of the Grey Wardens – free to make a life and write out their own future. Together.

"You can ask me again in Gwaren, by the way," she said coyly, pulling away to fix him with an impish grin. "I'd like to see this beautiful seaside vista. The ring would be a nice touch, too."

He harrumphed good-naturedly. "Yes, I suppose a proper romantic proposal is the least you deserve. I shall have to work on my wooing skills. You'll have to forgive me – they're a bit rusty."

"That's quite all right," she said, pulling him in close with a sultry look. "We have a lifetime to practice. And there's no time like the present."

* * *

Moira shrugged into her traveling tunic while Loghain filled his rucksack with supplies for the road. The seas were rough this time of year, and so they had decided to travel by road to Gwaren. The trip would take several days, and much of it would traverse the thick woodlands of the Brecilian Forest, where villages were few and far between. Fortunately, both Moira and Loghain were adept at packing for long, arduous journeys.

"I'll miss the palace," Moira lamented, as she stuffed a block of hard cheese into her pack. "I've rather enjoyed having roast mutton and pies for dinner instead of hard tack and weeks-old cheese."

"Well, I'm certain Gwaren will be something of a disappointment to you, then," he said. "The castle is hardly as well-apportioned as the palace or the keep at Highever." At Moira's darkened expression, Loghain grimaced.

"Maker, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to remind you of what happened at Highever."

She shook her head. "Don't apologize. You didn't set fire to the keep or slaughter everyone inside the walls. Howe did that, and I sent him to the Void for it." She sighed, stuffing the last of her provisions into her pack with a final shove. "I'm going to have to go back there eventually. Maybe once Fergus gets everything set to rights, and it looks less like a charnel house. But I'm not sure it will ever feel like anything other than a grave to me. It will certainly never feel like home again."

"I'm sorry, Moira," he said quietly. He sighed. "Gwaren isn't grand, and it is not as elegant as you are no doubt accustomed to, but I hope in time it will be a home to you."

Moira shook her head, fixing Loghain with a grateful, if exasperated, look. "I don't care how fancy it is, Loghain! You'll be there, and that will make it home for me."

Loghain returned her smile, but whatever he was prepared to say was interrupted by a firm knocking at the door. Frowning, Loghain strode to the door and opened it to reveal a serious-faced young royal courier.

"Apologies, milord," the lad said. "Queen Anora requests your presence at once." His eyes darted into the room to notice Moira standing there. "And the Hero of Ferelden, as well." If he found it odd that Moira was in Loghain's chambers in mid-afternoon, he was too versed in courtly politesse to comment. Instead, he gave both of them a perfunctory nod of deference, and retreated as swiftly as he'd come. Loghain closed the door behind the courier and met Moira's confused gaze with his own.

"Why do you suppose the queen needs both of us?" Moira said. "Surely Eamon's not up to more tricks? I thought I'd nipped that problem in the bud at his 'tribunal.'"

Loghain shook his head. "I don't know, but if my daughter wished to pay me a personal visit, she wouldn't send a palace courier, which means that whatever is going on, it concerns our responsibilities to the court and to Ferelden." He looked ruefully at the packed travel bags laying on the bed. "Which means that you'll probably have to wait to see the seaside cliffs, after all."

Moira sighed and ran an agitated hand through her hair. Just when it seemed that they were about to get some peace…

"Well, we shouldn't keep Her Majesty waiting."

* * *

Moira was surprised, when the steward ushered her and Loghain into the queen's parlor, to see her brother there as well.

"Fergus! What are you doing here?"

Fergus rose and wrapped Moira in a warm embrace. "Oh, nothing important. The queen's asked for my help with some of the rebuilding efforts in Denerim and around the country. It gives me something to do." Moira heard the unspoken meaning behind her brother's words, and nodded in solemn agreement.

_Instead of being surrounded by the ghosts at Highever._

"That's good," she managed evenly. "I'm sure the queen appreciates your assistance."

"Your brother is going to make an excellent teyrn, Lady Cousland," Anora chimed in, carrying a pot of tea to the sitting table from the serving table in the corner. The servants were absent, leading Moira to wonder what matter required such secrecy that Anora had not wanted even the presence of her most trusted personal staff. "He has a quick mind and a slow temper, and he has been invaluable in securing the trust and assistance of many of the more… recalcitrant… nobles, who, though they dare say nothing to my face, believe my rule to be illegitimate. Having the full support of the rightful Teyrn of Highever has allowed me to move forward with a vision to rebuild a stronger Ferelden out of the ashes."

Fergus blushed, and shot a furtive glance at Anora, who returned his look with a small smile. Was she imagining things, or did her brother and the queen seem to share some kind of personal affinity… even friendship? That was something she'd not exactly anticipated.

"The Queen is too kind," he said. "All of the good ideas are hers. Did she tell you about the university? She plans to found a center of learning, on the grounds next to Fort Drakon. I'm going to make the rounds in the bannorn in a few weeks, to secure funding from the banns and arls whose lands didn't suffer as badly the ill effects of the Blight. We have to rebuild Denerim anyway – why not rebuild it better, make it a capital to rival Val Royeaux? Maybe we can lure in all the prestigious academics who don't have any interest in playing Orlais' Grand Game."

Loghain snorted predictably at the mention of Orlais. "As long as you don't bedeck everything with garish gilded lions. Such ostentatious foppery has no place in Ferelden."

Anora rolled her eyes. "Oh, Father, really. Gilded lions? Give me a smidgen of credit."

"I think the university is a grand idea, but I can't imagine that is why you summoned us here, Your Majesty," Moira interjected as tactfully as she could manage, before Loghain went haring off down the rabbit hole of his loathing for all things Orlesian.

"You are perceptive as always, Lady Cousland," Anora said, eager to move past Loghain's grumping about Val Royeaux. "I have summoned you here because, unfortunately, it appears that the Blight has not entirely been vanquished."

"What? That's not possible," Moira said, her heart dropping into her stomach. "I killed the Archdemon. The darkspawn have retreated to the Deep Roads."

"Not all of them," Anora responded grimly. "There have been reports of incursions along the coast of the Waking Sea, near Amaranthine. Of course, a few raids here and there are to be expected from stragglers, but if the reports are correct, these attacks appear to be somewhat more coordinated. They are not random attacks by isolated groups, or so it seems." Her expression, though firm, carried a measure of remorse. "I know it is a bitter tonic to find yourself pressed into service so soon after the war has ended, but I fear I must call upon you as Grey Wardens once more. Ferelden cannot survive a recurrence of the Blight, and if that is indeed what these attacks portend, then we must put a stop to them at once."

 _This can't be possible. I slew the Archdemon. The Blight is over. It has to be!_ Panic welled in Moira's chest, and she realized, with a grim and sudden anxiety, that Anora did not realize that she and Loghain were no longer Wardens.

 _Maker – is this our punishment? For renouncing our oaths as Wardens and freeing ourselves of the taint? Has the Maker seen fit to punish our faithlessness with a new Blight?_ Moira did not believe that the Maker was such a harsh taskmaster, and yet guilt overwhelmed her. She had thought her duties as a Warden ended, and when she realized that the ashes had not only revived her from her deathless sleep, but also cured her of the taint, she'd been overjoyed to be free. But now what would Ferelden do?

Loghain had apparently arrived at the same realization, and he fixed his daughter with a remorseful look. "Anora… Moira and I… are no longer Grey Wardens."

"What do you mean, you are no longer Grey Wardens? I thought the Warden oath was a life vow?"

Loghain explained, haltingly, about the ashes, while Moira fought off waves of dread. What would they do, if these reports were correct? It was true that Wardens were not strictly necessary to kill 'ordinary' darkspawn – any accomplished warrior could do so. But the ability to sense the presence of the darkspawn through the taint, and the fearlessness that came from knowing that the Blight sickness held no further menace, provided the Wardens with an inescapable advantage. If there truly were organized darkspawn attacking Amaranthine, they would need to enlist the aid of the Wardens.

Unfortunately, there were, as of this morning, no Grey Wardens currently in Ferelden.

"I see," Anora said quietly after Loghain had finished explaining the consequences of the ashes. "I am ashamed to admit that I am happy that such a sacred relic has been found, and that the Grey Wardens no longer hold any claim over my father and Lady Cousland. Unfortunately, that also leaves the country in a rather precarious situation, with no Wardens left to defend us. I shall have to send to the nearest Warden garrison. I know you did not want foreign Wardens to come to Ferelden," she said, with a sharp glance at Loghain, "but we no longer have any choice."

"Absolutely not," Loghain said. "I do not trust armed Orlesians to occupy a garrison in this country, Grey Wardens or no."

"Then you propose allowing the darkspawn to run rampant over Amaranthine?" Anora shot back. "Father, it pains me to say so, but your hatred of Orlais blinded you to the peril of the Blight, and it blinds you now. I do not trust Empress Celine any more than you do – as the Maker knows – but I cannot allow another darkspawn infestation to fester unchecked."

 _Moira, you cannot trust the Grey Wardens._ Leliana's warning of only hours before echoed in Moira's thoughts and sent a renewed chill down her spine. In her vision, Leliana had seen Grey Warden mages desecrating the Temple of Sacred Ashes – if the Grey Wardens returned to Ferelden in numbers, would the prophecy come true?

_But Leliana took the ashes – if the Wardens were meant to desecrate the ashes, then it is already too late. Perhaps her actions have already changed the future. But what if I'm wrong?_

Moira shook her head – it didn't matter. Whatever Leliana had seen in her vision – if it were even true – was a possibility, something that would occur in the future, if at all. Meanwhile, darkspawn were raiding Amaranthine now, and if the Grey Wardens did not step in, too many more lives would be lost. Still, she understood Loghain's reluctance. However…

"What about the Free Marches?" Moira interjected, and all eyes in the room turned to look at her quizzically. "You're all assuming that the only nearby Grey Wardens are in Orlais. Why don't we call on the Marcher Wardens for assistance, at least until we can build up another garrison of native Fereldan Wardens? Surely Starkhaven, Ostwick, or Kirkwall has a Grey Warden presence. The Free Marches are closer to Amaranthine, and aid will arrive far faster from there than from Orlais."

Fergus grinned. "Sounds like a good compromise to me."

Anora nodded slowly. "Of course," she said. "Yes – that is a perfect solution."

Loghain grunted, but in his eyes Moira saw his undisguised admiration for her. "Yes, I suppose Marcher Wardens will do, for now. I think it imperative that Ferelden recruit its own complement of Wardens in our absence, however. As glad as I am to be free of the Warden taint, these attacks serve as an unfortunate reminder of the necessity of the Order."

Moira felt a wellspring of relief wash over her. Guilt still gnawed at her for failing to anticipate the consequences of renouncing her responsibilities as a Warden, but this was a solution that was best for Ferelden. "Then I should go. I was the Warden Commander of Ferelden, and I am the Warden who ended the Fifth Blight – that's got to get me somewhere with the rest of the Wardens. I will convince them to send a complement of Wardens to look into the situation at Amaranthine, and perhaps a permanent commander for the Warden garrison here."

"Which brings me to another complication," Anora said. "The arling of Amaranthine is currently without a lord. In recognition of the sacrifices of the Wardens, I had thought to grant the arling to the provenance of the Grey Wardens, to serve as their permanent garrison in Ferelden."

Moira felt as though slugged in the stomach by an invisible fist – she had entirely forgotten that Amaranthine had been Howe's arling, and rage and disgust welled up in her. She saw Fergus's jaw twitch, and knew he felt the same impotent revulsion.

"No," Loghain said. "Amaranthine is Fereldan sovereign territory. We cannot allow a foreign order, unanswerable to any Fereldan authority, to permanently occupy an entire arling, whether the Wardens in question are Orlesian or not."

"Father, you cannot continue to be so paranoid –"

"No. Loghain is right." To Moira's incredible surprise, it was Fergus who spoke. "As much as I loathe Howe for what he did to my family… Amaranthine belongs to Ferelden. The Grey Wardens will never owe their allegiance to Ferelden, or any other nation. I agree that we need a permanent garrison of Wardens, but the arling of Amaranthine must belong to Ferelden alone."

Anora sighed. "Yes… you are wise as ever, Teyrn Fergus." Moira saw Fergus blush, before the queen turned to her. "Then perhaps the Hero of Ferelden would consent to become the new Arlessa of Amaranthine."

Moira stared at Anora, flabbergasted. "What – me? You want to make me the Arlessa of Amaranthine?" With a burning face, she realized that Anora did not know of her and Loghain's plans.

"And why not?" Anora said. "The land and holdings have been stripped from Howe's heirs, should any of them survive. Amaranthine needs a lord. I can think of no one who has proven their loyalty to Ferelden and the Crown more."

Moira managed an awkward bow. "I am honored, Your Majesty," she said. "But… I'm afraid this wasn't exactly how we'd planned to tell you, but… I will be occupied elsewhere." She blushed as she realized that Fergus was about to hear her news as well. She'd have preferred to tell him privately, but the cat was well out of the bag now.

"Elsewhere?" Anora arched a skeptical eyebrow, while Fergus regarded her with puzzlement.

"Teyrn Loghain has asked me to marry him. I accepted." She could not resist a smile upon speaking the news aloud.

Moira wished she could have frozen time and preserved an image of Anora's and Fergus's faces for eternity. Anora looked, for the first time in Moira's acquaintance with her, utterly startled, while Fergus's expression held a mixture of alarm, disbelief, and astonishment.

"You _what?_ " he sputtered, looking from her to Loghain. "I mean, I knew you were… _with_ him… but already? Marriage?"

"I… did not expect to be taken by surprise by this news," Anora said, casting a very pointed look at her father.

Loghain, to Moira's endless amusement, simply shrugged. "Nor did I, but life rarely proceeds according to plan. Nevertheless, it is true."

"Are you sure?" Fergus blurted out. Loghain cast a consternated glare in his direction, which Fergus countered with a combination of embarrassment and defiance.

"Yes, I'm quite sure," Moira laughed. "You don't need to be such a big brother."

"Of course I do," he protested. "That's my job." Apparently satisfied with the contentment that shone through in Moira's expression, he relented, his shoulders relaxing, and he turned to Loghain with a mock stern face.

"You'd better never hurt my sister," he warned. "You'll have to answer to me if you do."

"Noted, and understood," Loghain said. With a sigh, Fergus made his way to Moira and wrapped her into a hug.

"I… wow," he murmured. "I can't pretend I understand what you see in him, but if you're happy, I'm happy."

"I am," she said, squeezing her brother tight. "And thank you."

Anora, having evidently shared an unspoken conversation with her father while Fergus had enfolded Moira in an embrace, cleared her throat.

"I offer you both my congratulations, but unfortunately, your wedding plans will have to suffer a delay," she said. "The situation in Amaranthine cannot wait. With the land devastated and the arling vacant, I need someone I trust to resolve the situation. I had intended to dispatch the two of you because you were the only Wardens in Ferelden, but even though you no longer belong to the Order, I have no one else."

Loghain nodded briskly. "Of course." He offered Moira a wry half-smile. "It appears the cliffs of Gwaren will have to wait, after all."

Moira nodded, disappointed but resolute. She had known, deep down, that her duty had not ended with the Blight. She just hadn't expected to be called to it again so soon. If the darkspawn were returning, then Ferelden needed Wardens. And Amaranthine needed a lord.

Well. She'd resolved a dwarven civil war, rooted a cabal of blood mage abominations out of the Circle, banished a demon from Redcliffe, and healed a rift between Dalish elves and human villagers in the Brecilian Forest. Oh, and slain an Archdemon. Finding some Marcher Wardens and securing an arl for Amaranthine would be child's play.

Or so she hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting to sound like a broken record, but once again, my apologies for the long wait for this chapter. Life, writer's block, blah blah, excuses. I'll try to get the next one out faster, but I've got to apply for the bar exam first, so wish me luck. The application is more intimidating than the exam itself, I think. Gross. I will work on the next chapter of FtA as soon as I have some time - but the good news is, this is the last "transitional" chapter before we kick into the next phase of the plot (although I did manage to get some nice developments in place in this one :D). Thank you as always for all your support!


	20. The Sins of the Father

The prosperous port city of Amaranthine could not have been a starker contrast to the Blight-ravaged lands of southern Ferelden. There was little evidence amongst the bustling shopkeepers and the soaring masts of merchants ships of the devastation that the darkspawn had wrought across so much of the land – an observation for which Moira felt both gratitude and resentment. Of course, that anywhere in Ferelden had been spared the worst of the Blight was a blessing – but it rankled her deeply that, of all the lands and lives poisoned by the darkspawn, Rendon Howe's holdings had been left mostly intact.

 _They aren't his lands anymore_ , she reminded herself. _You can't punish the people for the misdeeds of their lord._ And yet, to know that Denerim, Lothering, Gwaren, and Redcliffe – to name just a small handful of the places the Blight had touched – suffered while Amaranthine prospered roused an unwelcome pang of bitterness that filled her mouth like bile.

But then again, if the reports Anora had relayed were accurate, then Amaranthine was still in danger from the darkspawn – and, Howe's lands or not, Moira could not turn a blind eye if the horde still threatened Ferelden. The thought that the Blight might not have been entirely vanquished chilled her to the bone.

"I didn't see any evidence of these darkspawn attacks along the Pilgrim's Path," she offered hopefully to Loghain. "Perhaps the reports Anora received were mistaken."

"Perhaps." It was evident from Loghain's tone that he did not share her optimism. "For what it's worth, I don't imagine these attacks are a continuance of the Blight – the horde never attacked Amaranthine, and it hardly makes sense that they would disappear from the rest of Ferelden only to resurface, in scattered numbers, in a different location. But I suppose we'll learn more once we speak to the citizens here."

"Who exactly are we speaking with?" Moira mused as they threaded their way through crowded streets. "It's not as though there's a lord fit to rule the arling at the moment."

Loghain's sideways glance informed her that she'd failed to entirely keep the animosity from seeping into her voice. "One problem at a time, my dear," he said drolly. "Anora will sift through the pool of suitable candidates to find someone to fill the unlamented shoes of Arl Howe. All we have to do is make certain there's actually an arling left to rule."

He was right, of course. They were here to see to the darkspawn problem, not to worry about politics. In lieu of a lord, she and Loghain had arranged to meet with a gathering of prominent local citizens, all of whom had either experienced the darkspawn attacks, or who had a vested stake in the continued safety and prosperity of the city.

Loghain turned, casting a glance over his shoulder, and Moira wondered at his distraction. He'd seemed generally subdued since they'd entered the city – Moira wondered if he too felt the oppressive ghost of Rendon Howe hanging like a pall over the otherwise pleasant streets.

"Here," he said, and without further prelude, took Moira by the arm and guided her gently but firmly to a merchant's stall along the side of the busy courtyard. "Take a look at this jewelry, will you?"

"Loghain, what in the Maker's name?" she blurted as he pulled her close, craning down to peer intently at the merchant's wares. The merchant, a rotund, ebullient man, beamed at his newfound customers, but Loghain paid him no mind, and Moira was wildly confused at her fiancé's erratic behavior.

"Someone is following us," he said, his voice a discreet rumble mere inches from her ear. "A man in a dark green cloak. He's been trailing behind us since just before we entered the gates. He lingers now on the outskirts of the market, and once we move on, he will resume his pursuit. Do not look – I don't believe he's yet caught on that I know he's there."

Loghain's words sent a tremor of fear down Moira's spine. Any number of wild possibilities flew through her mind – an assassin? A spy?

"What are we going to do?" she hissed in reply. "You're certain he's following us?"

"Quite certain," he said. "And we're going to do nothing – at least, that's what we want him to think. If he intends to confront us, and I imagine he does, then I want to make certain that it is in the time and place of our choosing."

Loghain's matter of fact discussion of their shadow was both comforting and unnerving, and Moira found herself unconsciously slipping her hand into his. She had full confidence in her fighting skills – should it come to that – but it gave her solace to know that he was with her, ever vigilant, watching her back. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

"Come," he said. "Perhaps we should rent a room at the local inn. If he thinks we've let down our guard, then he might feel bold enough to be drawn out of hiding."

It was as good a plan as any – the stalker had proven to be cautious, and he would take care not to accost them in the open streets. Moira certainly did not want to lead him to their meeting with the Amaranthine merchants – if he was indeed a spy or an assassin, she could not risk exposing the innocent citizens to harm.

The tavern was cozy, if somewhat seedy, and the innkeeper was the sort who asked no questions once Loghain produced a handful of silver pieces to pay for their room and board. Taking the key in hand, Loghain nodded genially and slipped his arm around Moira's waist, giving her a coy and knowing smile.

"It's been a long day, darling. I'm quite ready to retire," he said with a wink. Moira could only blink in bemused bewilderment as he snuggled her close, leading her up the creaking stairs and to the door marked with their room number.

"I'm not averse to your affections, but you're hardly the wink and cuddle in public type," she said, eyeing him shrewdly as he turned the key in the lock. "Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?"

"I want our mysterious friend to be entirely under the impression that we are relaxed and… shall we say… indisposed, and thus not expecting any intruders." He pushed the door open, and Moira entered the small, tidy room. "The innkeeper seemed the sort who will sell any secrets for a handful of coppers. I don't imagine we'll have to wait long for our guest to arrive."

They took up positions on either side of the door, still clad in their light traveling armor, each readying the unremarkable but hardy short swords they'd brought along just in case of trouble. For a long while, it seemed as though Loghain's suspicions had proven to be overly paranoid – they waited for what seemed like interminable hours for an intrusion that never came. Just as Moira was about ready to give up and strip off her traveling leathers, a faint, barely perceptible scratching caught at her attention. Her eyes met Loghain's, and she saw in his intent gaze that he heard it too. Tightening her grip on her blade, she inched forward, straining to hear the invader at the door.

A soft clinking alerted her that the intruder had picked the lock, but, as Moira waited, muscles screaming in poised anticipation, the door remained firmly closed.

"Damn it!" The voice was faint and muffled, and issued from the other side of the door – what was going on? Their stalker had clearly followed them up to their rooms, intent on confronting them for whatever nefarious purpose – and yet now he hesitated. To what end?

"Oh, bugger this." Loghain snarled in annoyance, and, without warning, he surged forward, throwing open the door. "Come out of the shadows, coward!"

The intruder, taken completely aback by Loghain's sudden appearance, tumbled backwards. For a fleeting moment, his hood fell back, and Moira saw that he was a young man, with long dark hair tied back in a neat braid away from his face. His eyes blazed in fear and hatred, and there was something familiar about him that scratched at the edges of Moira's memory.

Her ruminations were cut short, however, when the intruder, his equilibrium regained, slipped a hand into a pouch at his side and flung its contents straight into Loghain's face. A fine powder misted into the air, and Loghain bellowed in rage as he clenched his eyes shut tight, hands instinctively shooting up as he scrubbed at the dust that coated his face.

"Loghain!" Moira cried, going to her lover as she caught the sight of the invader's disappearing cloak as he scampered hastily down the stairs.

"Go!" Loghain roared, hands still frantically rubbing at his eyes. "It's just an itching powder – Maker's balls, it stings! I'm fine! Get that bastard!"

Moira didn't need to be told twice, her warrior's instincts kicking in as she scrambled after the cloaked stranger, barreling down the inn's stairs in hot pursuit. She caught another glimpse of the man's face as he reached the door, his head snapping back to gauge the distance of his pursuers, and again the odd but undeniable sense of familiarity crashed over her – she knew him from somewhere, she would bet a hundred sovereigns on it. But from where – and why was he attacking her now?

She burst out of the inn and into the market square, swearing violently as she saw the man making his way nimbly through the busy marketplace. Maker's breath, but he was fast! Left to her own devices, she would soon lose him in the crowd. She counted herself as agile, but this man was something else altogether – she began to wonder if he was indeed a professional assassin. The only other man she'd ever known to move with such swift purpose had been Zevran. She needed to enlist help, and fast.

"Guards!" she cried. "Catch that man! He's an assassin!"

A general cry of alarm quickly spread amongst the milling citizens, and people began to flee in a panic away from both Moira and the man, who threw a frantic look over his shoulder at Moira's words. A patrol of armed city guards, roused into action by the commotion, pointed and shouted at the man, and she heard one of them – presumably the guard-captain – issue a general call to arms. Guards moved to blockade each of the streets that led away from the marketplace, and it soon became apparent that if the man was to escape, he would have to fight his way past the guards. Moira adjusted her grip on her own sword as she continued after him, preparing for a fight. She didn't want to see any innocent guards hurt as a result of a plot that clearly targeted she and Loghain alone.

Abruptly, the man skidded to a halt, apparently realizing that his hope of escape had evaporated. He withdrew a pair of daggers from his belt – but, instead of readying them for a fight, he threw them on the ground, as if in disgust. The city guard, not taking any chances, rushed in to restrain him. They reached him just as Moira arrived, and one particularly burly guard threw the man to the ground and wrestled him into a pair of manacles. The guard jerked him, not gently, from the ground, and the man lifted his face to regard Moira with the same expression of hatred she'd seen before, in the tavern.

"So. You've bested me, Warden. Congratulations." The familiar face sneered at her. "I have to admit… I thought you'd be a little more intimidating. You should hear the stories they tell of you, of how the great Moira Cousland single-handedly slew the great dragon and ended the Blight. It's funny, though. None of those stories seem to mention the bodies you left in your wake, or the lives you ruined. Like my father's." His grey eyes blazed with unbridled anger. "Imagine how it felt for me, to return to Amaranthine at long last, only to be treated as a trespasser and a thief in my own home. To be told that the lands my family has tended for generations were taken from us at the whim of the so-called 'Hero of Ferelden.' To be told that there is nothing here for me but ashes and death."

The nagging notion in the back of her mind that she knew this young man from _somewhere_ at last crystallized into total clarity, and she felt the air forced from her lungs as awareness slammed into her like a punch to the gut.

"Nathaniel Howe," she breathed. It had been years since she'd seen him, but now that the pieces had fallen into place, the verdict was undeniable. He was older, of course, and much changed; leaner, harder, and angrier than the quiet but polite youth she remembered from her adolescence.

"Ah, so you do remember me," he said bitingly. "I'm sure you're well pleased with yourself, now that you've another Howe at your mercy. I only wonder if you'll see fit to give me the pretense of a trial, or whether you'll just stick your blade into my belly as you did to my father and have done with it."

The rage that had simmered just below the surface ever since Moira's arrival in Amaranthine boiled over with a vicious rapidity, as if Howe had taken a hot brand and pressed it mercilessly against her soul. For one wild, exultant moment, Moira considered doing exactly that – plunging her sword straight into Nathaniel's gut and twisting, hard, her eyes boring into his as he bled out his life onto the cobbled stone below. The impulse passed as quickly as it had come, and, seeking a desperate outlet for her fury, she settled instead for slamming her fist into his stomach.

"You son of a bitch," she spat as Nathaniel grunted in surprise and pain. "Your father murdered my _entire family_! He slew us in our own home so that he could steal the teyrnir for himself! I was _there_! I saw them all die! He got what was coming to him, and I would kill him again, in a heartbeat."

For a moment, the expression in Howe's eyes flickered – the fire of pure hatred wavered, and something like uncertainty passed across his gaze. "Look, I wasn't here during the Blight. I don't know anything about that," he said shortly. "I know the Couslands died in the civil war – for what it's worth, I'm sorry about that. It sounds awful, what happened to your family. But the whole war was awful, and I fail to see why my family should be branded as eternal outcasts because my father fought for the losing side."

"Moira? Are you well? You've got the bastard under control?" Loghain's voice pre-empted her response to Howe, and he strode up to stand beside her, eyes red and bleary but otherwise unharmed. At Loghain's sudden appearance, Howe's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Ah, Teyrn Loghain," he snarled. "The so-called 'regent.' How very interesting – the man responsible for abandoning the king to his doom still lives, and yet my father, whose loyalty you were all too happy to exploit for your own purposes, molders in the ground." His expression hardened once again into a mask of hatred. "The vagaries of fate continue to astonish in their cruelty."

Loghain glared hard at Nathaniel for a few moments before the same light of recognition dawned in his eyes. "You must be the elder Howe lad," he said slowly. "Nathaniel, is it? You were off serving as a squire in Starkhaven during the Blight, weren't you?"

"Father spoke of me, did he?" There was a mocking tone to Nathaniel's voice. "That's right. I'd have been happy to stay there, too, until word reached me that the Grey Wardens had murdered my father and stolen his lands."

"The Grey Wardens didn't murder your father. I did," Moira said hotly. "And I'm through listening to you justify his crimes. Your father was a butcher and a traitor, and I'm glad he's dead."

"A butcher and a traitor! And yet here stands the most notorious butcher and traitor of them all, right beside you! Where are your cries for Teyrn Loghain's head, your bays for his blood?"

"Your father wasn't killed because of his loyalty to me, Nathaniel," Loghain said softly. "What Moira said is true. He orchestrated a bloody massacre of the Couslands at Highever. By the time he pledged his forces to me, the deed was done. It was my responsibility, as regent, to bring him to justice for his crimes, but I failed to do so. You cannot blame Moira for avenging her family."

"You rank coward," Nathaniel hissed. "You let my father take the fall for you to save your own skin! If there was any justice in the world, you should have shared his fate – and yet here you are, still alive, still the Teyrn of Gwaren. A pity my father wasn't able to arrange for my sister to become the queen – perhaps things would have turned out differently then."

"That's enough!" Moira interrupted, her voice ice. She turned to the guard who restrained Nathaniel.

"Arrest this man for sedition and attempted assassination," she said. "He intended to break into my room at the tavern and kill me in retaliation for the justice I delivered to his worm of a father. Clearly treachery runs in the blood."

The guard brusquely nodded, and Nathaniel, to her surprise, burst into laughter. "Yes, Grey Warden! Hang me from your gallows! Sate your bloodlust! Another dead Howe to add to your tally!" The guard began to drag Nathaniel away, and the guard-captain, a sturdy and capable looking man who had patiently observed the encounter, nodded his head respectfully to Moira.

"I apologize for the danger to your life, Warden. Know that all of Amaranthine, and all of Ferelden, remains in your debt. I will see to it that the Howe lad is secure in the prison. He'll await your judgment."

"Thank you, Captain," she said, her blood running hot in her veins as she watched the guards drag Howe away. She turned with an angry flourish towards Loghain.

"The nerve of that little bastard," she said furiously. "He dares to justify my family's murder, and blame you for his despicable father's crimes? The apple clearly doesn't fall far from the tree." She heaved an agitated sigh and ran a hand through her hair. "So be it. I'll deal with him like I dealt with his vermin father. Maker take me, and I was hoping to leave this city without any more reminders of Rendon fucking Howe."

"Moira." There was a quiet insistence to Loghain's voice that seized her attention, and she looked up at him to find him regarding her with an expression that bordered on melancholy.

"I understand your anger. Believe me, I do." He sighed, and his hand drifted to her arm, resting against her lightly. "My parents were murdered by the Orlesians. I spent my entire youth hating them for it." He scoffed. "Maker, I've spent my entire _life_ hating them for it. And you saw where it got me." He looked up at her, his eyes curiously bright. "I don't mean to say that they don't deserve my hatred, or that I've forgiven them for what they've done. I haven't, and I never will. But I allowed my anger to consume me, to blind me to reason. What happened to your family was unforgivable, but I do not want to see you torn apart by the same unrelenting hatred that drove me to ruin."

Moira stared hard at Loghain, an ill feeling settling into the pit of her belly. "What exactly are you saying, Loghain? That I shouldn't be angry at Howe's brat for making excuses for his vile father, the man who destroyed my family?"

Loghain huffed an exasperated sigh. "No, that isn't what I'm saying!" He looked around, and noticed that more than a few citizens had gathered around the periphery of their conversation, still intrigued by the sudden excitement that had beset the marketplace. "This isn't a conversation we should be having in public."

Moira was inclined to agree – she had no desire to relive the worst day of her life in front of a gathering crowd. By mutual unspoken accord, they returned to their room, where, her energy waning, Moira sagged against the wall.

"I don't understand what you're trying to convince me of, Loghain," she said tiredly. "You heard Howe's spawn – he thinks what happened to his father was unfair! He was in denial about what happened with my family! And he tried to pin all the blame for Howe's villainy on you! And now you're lecturing me about being 'consumed with hatred'?"

"You have placed the burden of Rendon Howe's sins onto his son's shoulders," Loghain said. "It is both unjust and unlike you to punish an innocent man for the deeds of the guilty. What responsibility could he possibly own for his father's villainy? The lad wasn't even in Ferelden during the Blight."

"What difference does that make?" she said hotly. "He knew enough to know that you were the regent, and he knew that his father murdered my family. I cannot understand why you're making excuses for him, Loghain! Didn't you hear him trying to blame you? As if you bear more responsibility than a Howe for what happened to my parents!"

"Don't I?" He met her eyes, his gaze uncompromising.

"What in the Maker's name are you talking about?" A heavy stone formed in her throat. "I don't blame you for what Howe did to my family, Loghain!"

"I know you don't. But perhaps you should." Moira felt her stomach lurch as the stone dropped down to settle in the pit of her belly. "I knew what Howe had done to the Couslands when he pledged his fealty to me, and yet I accepted his oath. I made no move to bring him to justice. I allowed him to call himself the Teyrn of Highever, granting legitimacy to his theft of your family's title and lands. And yet you twist yourself into knots to absolve me of the guilt my deeds should rightfully claim, while thinking nothing of condemning Nathaniel Howe, who knew nothing of his father's crimes until well after they had been avenged. Is that justice?"

Moira stared in uncomprehending anguish at Loghain, her blood turning to ice.

"Don't say that," she whispered. "You don't mean that."

"Of course I do," he continued relentlessly. "You want someone to blame for Howe's villainy? Then blame the man who allowed his evil to go unpunished. Blame the man who accepted his blood money in exchange for an alliance of convenience. Blame the man who allowed the usurper free reign over the ruins of Highever. Blame me."

Every word was a dagger, thrust pitilessly into Moira's heart. A keening, despondent wail tore loose from her throat, and her hand rose of its own volition, striking him with savage force across the face. The sound of her palm against his skin echoed with a resounding crack in the small, confined space. He did not flinch away from her blow, and a reddened mark began to spread across his cheek like a seeping bloodstain.

"Fuck you." The words followed close on the trail of her agonized cry, and she began to pummel at his chest, her fists balled tight as she rained down blows against him. "Fuck you! _Fuck you_!" Her vision blurred and dimmed as heavy, wet tears fell from her eyes, and then she was aware of Loghain's arms coming around her, pulling her in close as she continued to struggle against him, her fists banging against the broad plane of his chest.

"I'm so sorry, Moira." His voice was impossibly gentle, a tender caress muffled into her hair as he held her tight against him. "I would do anything to make things right for you. If I could undo my actions, if I could bring Howe to justice and take away even the smallest amount of your pain, I would do it at once. Of all the regrets I will carry with me for the rest of my life, hurting you weighs heaviest on my soul. I would not let you blame an innocent man for sins that are by all rights mine to own."

She shuddered against him, trembling in his arms as choking sobs wracked her body. The floodgates of a grief she'd never fully allowed herself to face were flung open, and she wept bitterly against Loghain until her throat ached. She buried her face into his chest and allowed the tide of sorrow to crash over her, the smooth leather of his traveling armor wet and slippery with her tears. He held her gently, wordlessly, his arms encircling her, hands stroking firmly and tenderly across her back until the tide began to slowly recede, leaving her feeling raw and exposed.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled against him, pulling back at last to wipe her face dry. She dared a glance at him, and found in his eyes only gentle affection. A wave of guilt and remorse flooded through her as she noticed the reddened skin of his cheek. With a trembling hand, she reached up to caress him lightly.

"I shouldn't have struck you," she said, ashamed. "I'm so sorry."

He smiled, closing his hand around hers and kissing her fingertips gently. "It's nothing," he said, his voice tender but gruff. "Mind you, I'd prefer you not make a habit of it."

She laughed, her voice tremulous as a sense of shaky, uncertain peace filled her. She knew the pain of losing her family would never leave her, but she knew that holding onto her anger would only poison her heart in the end. Nathaniel Howe had made her furious with his bitter defiance, but Loghain was right – he hadn't killed her family. He hadn't been complicit in his father's plot in any way. And now he was locked in a cell like a criminal, all because she had needed someone who still lived to receive the full force of her hatred. Shame filled her.

"Maker, where would I be without you?" she sighed, rubbing her face. "Thank you for talking sense into me. I'll go to the guard-captain at once. I will never forgive Rendon Howe for what he did, but you're right – Nathaniel Howe doesn't deserve to be punished for his father's crimes."

"Nathaniel Howe may have to wait," Loghain said. "We're due to meet with the citizen's council this afternoon."

"Oh, bugger," she swore. She hardly looked fit for a meeting with the prominent citizens of Amaranthine, her face blotchy and clearly fresh off a crying jag. "Well, perhaps we should both freshen up, then. I don't want the society of Amaranthine to titter with gossip about the Teyrn of Gwaren and the Hero of Ferelden showing up looking as though they'd just had a knock-down row."

* * *

An hour and a pair of hot, refreshing baths later, Loghain and Moira made their way to the merchant's guildhall, where a half-dozen men and women had gathered. One pair – a married couple, judging by their level of comfort with each other – seemed to be the de facto spokesmen, and again Moira was struck with a niggling sense of familiarity as she regarded the woman. Upon their entrance into the meeting room, the merchants stood to greet them, and the woman approached Moira with an expression that was both friendly and apprehensive.

"It's an honor to have you in Amaranthine, Lady Cousland," the woman said, taking Moira's hand in hers. "And you as well, Teyrn Loghain." She cleared her throat, and the man whom Moira presumed was her husband came to stand behind her, laying a protective hand on her shoulder.

"It's all right, Dee," the man said.

"I don't know if you remember me, Moira," the woman said. "But I wanted to say how sorry I am for what happened to your family. Your parents were always so sweet and kind to me whenever we would visit Highever. What my father did was unconscionable, and I took no part in it."

"Delilah," Moira breathed. Again, she was filled with a sense of shame – if she had not already encountered Nathaniel, and been brought to her cathartic outpouring of grief by Loghain, she was certain her reception of Howe's only daughter would have been less than civil. And yet, she remembered Delilah from happier times, in their youth; the girl had always been sweet-natured, never haughty or vain as young noble girls often could be. The only of Howe's children who seemed to reflect their father's nature had been Thomas, who Moira remembered as spoiled and spiteful, even as a young boy. She recalled the day of the massacre, before Howe had shown his true colors; he'd suggested to her father that she and Thomas might be a good match. She had instantly made her revulsion plain, earning her an embarrassed flush from her father and a far-more-threatening glare from Howe. Maker, what a fool she'd been, to tar Nathaniel and Delilah with their father's shame!

"I don't imagine it's pleasant for you to be reminded of anything to do with the name Howe," Delilah continued apologetically. "I abandoned Vigil's Keep as soon as I learned what Father had done – I could not bear the shame of being associated with his disgrace. Fortunately, I found Albert." She squeezed the man's hand. "He helped me hide from my father's soldiers. Father tore apart half the city looking for me, convinced I'd been 'taken' by his enemies – he couldn't fathom that I wanted nothing to do with his evil."

"I'm sorry for what happened to you," Moira said, and realized she genuinely meant it. "I don't blame you for what happened." The guilt over her treatment of Nathaniel crawled over her, and she knew now she could not leave Amaranthine until she made things right. Before she could say anything about Nathaniel, however, Delilah smiled, and gestured towards the table of merchants.

"It means a lot to me to hear you say that," Delilah said. "But you didn't come all this way to talk about my wretched father. The darkspawn have been attacking settlements and trade caravans all along the Waking Sea, and we didn't know where else to turn. We thought at first the attacks were just the last throes of the Blight, but they seem to be increasing in number and coordination, which doesn't make sense – if they were connected to the Blight, they should be tapering off. But they're not."

Moira felt a chill creep across her as the merchants described the trouble in the arling: homesteads put to the torch, the residents slaughtered in the vicious, ritualistic manner of the darkspawn; trade caravans ambushed and burned, their goods undisturbed and left to rot, hardly the work of thieves; mysterious sightings of dwarven warriors, who seldom emerged from the Deep Roads – unless, of course, the Deep Roads were being overrun. All the indications pointed to a new darkspawn incursion, and Moira knew, with a dreadful certainty, that she and Loghain would need help to get to the bottom of it.

"I know this is a great burden to place on your shoulders so soon after the end of the Blight," Delilah said. "But you are the only Grey Wardens left in Ferelden, and we need the expertise of the Wardens to find the source of the attacks."

Moira and Loghain shared an apprehensive glance. "Well… truthfully, neither of us are Grey Wardens any longer," Moira said apologetically. "Something… happened… after the final battle with the Archdemon, and we no longer possess our Grey Warden abilities."

The merchants glanced at one another in confusion as a panicked murmur rose from the table, and Delilah creased her brows together in puzzlement. "I don't understand," she said. "You were Grey Wardens, but now you're… not? How does that work? I thought Grey Wardens took the oath for life."

Moira felt a headache coming on, and realized that she would have to come up with a believable story to explain why she was miraculously no longer a Grey Warden. She could not have cared less about preserving the Grey Warden "secret" of the Joining, but the general lack of knowledge about what, exactly, made a Grey Warden a Grey Warden worked now to her benefit.

"I suppose it had something to do with defeating the Archdemon," she said, feeling a pang of remorse at lying so brazenly to Delilah. "Perhaps Wardens in close proximity to the Archdemon lose their powers once the beast is slain. I couldn't say. But I am afraid we will have to send for Grey Wardens from further afield than Ferelden."

"Wardens from another country?" a plump, mustached merchant huffed. "That could take months! We might not have that long if these attacks keep up!"

"It takes a good two months to travel through the Frostbacks to Orlais from here," another dignitary, a thin, reedy man, griped. "That's nearly four months before we receive any support!"

"We won't be going to Orlais," Loghain said, his voice brooking no debate. "Not when it's a simple matter to take a ship across the Waking Sea to the Free Marches. Surely there are Grey Wardens in Kirkwall or Ostwick."

"Hmm… yes, that's a possibility," the merchant said, placated.

"We understand the need for a Grey Warden presence in Ferelden," Moira said. "Our plan is to journey to the Free Marches, recruit a small base of Wardens to serve as commanders of the Ferelden garrison, and then build up the order's ranks from among promising knights and warriors who accept the risks of service as a Grey Warden." That, she had decided, was non-negotiable: she would not countenance another Warden-Commander Duncan, who recruited unwilling and unsuitable candidates without giving them any indication of exactly the breadth of the sacrifice they'd be making. "Now that we know what exactly is happening in Amaranthine, we should be able to convince at least some of the Marcher Wardens to offer their assistance."

"I hope you're right," Delilah said, taking her husband's hand. "I fear Amaranthine depends upon it."

As the merchants dispersed, Moira approached Delilah, feeling a lingering lump of shame catch in her throat.

"Delilah," she began hesitantly. "There's someone you need to see."

* * *

Moira descended the stairs into the dank prison, the guttering torches providing just enough light for her to avoid a disastrous misstep. Loghain had agreed to wait for her back in their room at the inn – he'd understood her need to do this alone.

She approached the cell at the end of the lonely prison block, and saw the lone figure sitting slumped against the wall. At her approach, he raised his head lazily to regard her, before slumping back against the wall with a mirthless scoff.

"You know, I wasn't actually going to kill you," Nathaniel said. "That _was_ my plan, at first. Take my revenge against the Grey Warden who slew my father in cold blood. But then, when I stood at the door to your room, I couldn't do it. Not that it matters anymore, I suppose." He shook his head. "I reckon you're here to take me to the gallows, then. Well, I hope you've gathered a good crowd. I'm sure there are plenty of folk in Amaranthine who will welcome the chance to watch the son of their hated arl dance at the end of a rope."

"No one's going to the gallows," she said. "I spoke to the guard-captain. You're free to go, with my apologies."

Nate arched a wry eyebrow. "That's it? Changed your mind, just like that?" He chuckled grimly. "Even after I just admitted I did plan to kill you? How do you know I won't try again?"

"Because you're not your father," Moira said quietly. "And I was wrong to hate you for what he did."

Nate blinked, as if unable to process his changing fortunes. "I still don't entirely understand, Cousland. You wanted me dead, and now you're letting me go. Where do you imagine I have to go? My home is gone. My family is dead. Everything was taken from me. And unlike you, I don't have a heroic title or reputation to fall back on. I'm not even 'Lord Howe' anymore. I'm nobody."

"You haven't lost everything," she said. A clatter of footsteps down the stairs alerted her that her companion had arrived. "And you haven't lost everyone." The footsteps drew closer, and Delilah Howe emerged from the shadows, her expression progressing from disbelief, to amazement, to joy.

"Nate! Andraste have mercy, it really is you!" She ran to the bars of the cell, craning her head to regard her long-lost brother. Nate stared in wild incredulity, his gaze snapping back and forth from Delilah to Moira and back.

"Delilah?" he whispered. "You're alive? You weren't at Vigil's Keep –"

"I haven't been there since Father went mad," she said. "Oh, Nate, it was terrible! Father was never a nice man, but the things he did…" Her face darkened. "He disgraced our family with his cruelty. He butchered the Couslands in their home, tortured anyone who stood in his way, and I think he even meant to kill Queen Anora and steal the crown. There was no end to his ambition, or his bloodlust."

Nate stared at her, stricken. "But why? Father was always a bastard, but he was never…" His voice trailed off, but his silence filled the pause far more effectively than any words could have. A murderer. A usurper. A torturer. A traitor.

"I know," Delilah said. "I'm so sorry you have to come home to this mess, Nate. I wish we could have reunited under better circumstances." She offered a small half-smile. "You'll have to tell me all about the Free Marches, you know. Why don't you come over to our house tonight? Albert cooks a mean venison stew."

Whatever Nathaniel said in response remained a mystery to Moira; she had taken the chance to fade into the shadows and make her way out of the gaol, unwilling to further disturb the Howe siblings' poignant reunion. The events of the day had thoroughly drained her, leaving her exhausted and spent, and she badly wanted to collapse into bed, next to Loghain, and forget about the Howes and the darkspawn and the Grey Wardens for at least a couple of hours.

She made her way back to the inn, where Loghain waited in their room, perched on the side of the bed. Heaving a heavy, world-weary sigh, she sank down onto the bed, leaning into his arms.

"Long day?" he murmured, placing a soft kiss against her brow.

"The longest." She snuggled into him, slipping her arms around his broad shoulders. Normally, being in such close proximity to Loghain's muscular frame would have aroused a passionate response in her, but tonight she could only manage a tired hum of contentment as she nestled against him.

"I went to the docks while you were meeting with the guard-captain," he said. "There are no ships bound for Ostwick anytime soon, but there is a merchant vessel departing for Kirkwall tomorrow morning. I booked us passage. It's as good a place as any to start a search for Free Marcher Grey Wardens."

"Good," she mumbled. "I'm sorry I slapped you."

He snorted. "I've endured far worse, believe me."

"I'm your fiancée," she protested.

"Indeed. And how fortunate I am." He leaned over and kissed her on the top of the head. "You should get some rest. The voyage will be long, and I suspect there won't be much time for relaxation once we're there."

"Mmm." Moira was rapidly sinking beneath the waves of consciousness, and she was dimly aware of Loghain shifting his arms and settling her down against the bed linens. "Love you."

"I love you too, Moira." His deep, rumbling voice intoned above her, and she drifted off into the Fade with a soft smile on her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, another two months since the last update. I officially suck. I have applied for the bar exam, however, so HOPEFULLY updates will be a little more forthcoming now, since I'm sure I'll prefer to write fanfic and procrastinate than actually study. This chapter moved a little slower than I'd imagined, but the good news is that Act II of this story well and truly gets underway next chapter, when our lovebirds make their way to Kirkwall, where they just might run into some familiar faces. Thank you all for all your support! Your reviews and kudos mean so much!


	21. The City of Chains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is my usual apology for how long this chapter took to come out. Unfortunately, I'm in the middle of studying for the bar exam, so I doubt I'll have time to work on the story for the next month or so, so please be patient - this story is absolutely still my creative priority, and I will get back to work on it as soon as my life settles down a bit. To make up for your long wait, there is a lemon ahoy :D Thank you so much for all your support. I appreciate every single kudo, comment, and bookmark.

The _Siren of the Waking Sea_ was, to Loghain's mind, far too ostentatious of a name for the creaking merchant sloop on which he'd booked passage to Kirkwall, considering the shabbiness of the "luxury stateroom" in which he and Moira were now berthed. The captain, a grizzled old sea salt straight out of a bard's tale, had proudly escorted his esteemed guests to the largest suite, for which Loghain had paid a small handful of sovereigns; but now, as he sat perched on the narrow, uncomfortable cot that took up fully half of their "suite," he rather wished he'd saved his coin.

The main appurtenance of the luxury stateroom appeared to be the tiny porthole, out of which Moira now gazed, her expression one of quiet contemplation. He loved observing her like this, when she was unaware of his scrutiny. Her auburn hair was gathered in a loose braid, as she most often preferred to wear it when traveling, and it fell softly against the nape of her neck. Loghain found himself longing to get up and press his lips against the spot where her shirt's neckline fell against her soft skin, but he did not want to disturb her reverie. She was more pensive than usual this morning, and Loghain suspected she still felt the tremors of the emotional upheaval brought about by her inadvertent reunion with Rendon Howe's heirs. He suppressed a sigh, not wanting to disturb her with his own stew of jumbled thoughts. Maker knew she deserved a moment of peace after everything she'd been through in the past year.

"I never realized how much I missed the sea." Moira's voice broke the comfortable silence. "Sometimes, when Fergus got on my nerves, or if Mother was being demanding about my lessons, I'd take Dancer down to the cliffs just past Highever and sit there and watch the waves come in. It was nice to get away for a few hours, just me and Dancer and the sea."

"Dancer?" Loghain's tone was gently inquisitive.

"My mare. She was an Amaranthine Charger. She would've ridden into the Void if I'd asked her to." Her expression grew dark. "She died a couple of winters back. It was probably for the best, all things considered." She did not need to elaborate.

Loghain released his long-held sigh at last. "Moira –"

"No, it's all right," she said, and, when she turned to him, there was a brightness in her eyes that had been absent since Amaranthine. "I'm all right, really." She smiled, and though it was a wan, rueful smile, it was a smile nonetheless. "I can't drown in my grief forever."

"No, but you don't have to pretend it no longer pains you, either. Sorrow never truly leaves us. The best we can do is to make a home for what we've lost in our hearts, without closing the door to the joys that might find us along the way." He marveled at how unlikely it was that such words should come from him, of all people; he whose heart had been shut away, barred under the strongest lock and key for decades, impervious to any intrusion – until, of course, Moira had spared him, and begun, with that simple act of mercy, to dismantle all his careful defenses.

"How is it you always know what to say to make me feel better?" she purred, leaning into him in the snug confines of their cabin. "You told me once you were no poet. I beg to differ. You've quite the way with words."

Loghain harrumphed, though he could not suppress a slight half-smile for the woman whose soft curves pressed tantalizingly against his broad chest. "Perhaps you're just easily impressed."

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Easily impressed?" Her palms slid down the plane of his chest, coming to a rest against his thighs. Loghain stifled a groan of want at the proximity of her hands, so close to his rapidly-responding manhood. Maker, what her simple touch could do to him! "You shouldn't sell yourself so short."

The innuendo of her words was not lost on Loghain, but her hand at his trouser laces left no doubt as to her intentions. A growl of desire escaped unbidden from his throat at her touch, and his heart hammered frantically against his ribs as his cock hardened under her dancing fingers. He could not stifle a ragged moan as she tugged his trousers open and took him in hand, her smooth palms sliding across his shaft in tentative but firm exploration. He dared a glance at her, and felt himself tenderly moved by her expression of reverent desire. He supposed she'd never really taken the time to caress him like this before; they were still relatively new to intimacy, and he usually insisted on attending to her needs before his own. Now, as he watched her touch him, he found his heart swelling with love for his sweet Moira, whose sincere ministrations moved him to pleasure her in kind.

He reached for her, his hands finding her hips and drawing her close, but to his surprise, she removed her hands from his manhood and placed them on his wrists, pulling them away from her body gently.

"This time, I want to please you." Her voice was a husky murmur that sent a thrill of exultant desire straight to his rigid cock. Still, he could not stop his hands from threading through her hair and drawing her in close for a tender but passionate kiss.

"It's not in my nature to be a selfish lover," he responded, his voice a hushed whisper against the shell of her ear. "Nothing pleases me more than making you come."

She groaned against him, her lips warm and moist against his neck. "I'm sure you'll have ample opportunity," she said, her hands descending again to his manhood. "But you promised me once that I'd get the chance to return the favor, and I'd like to do that now." She took him in hand again, and any other thoughts fled from his mind.

She removed her hands from him just long enough to place them on his chest, pushing him down so that he sat at the edge of the cot. With swift purpose, she tugged his trousers down and out of the way, her hands sliding warm and tantalizing across the bare skin of his thighs and stomach as she settled between his legs. Loghain's breath caught in his throat as he watched her there, kneeling before him, her lips half-parted in anticipation, her hands sliding through the coarse hair that dusted across his belly before arriving at the base of his cock and wrapping around his girth.

"Moira." His voice was a ragged groan, and he lifted his hands, trembling with desire, to tangle in her hair. She met his eyes, and he saw in her gaze both desire and a shyness that reminded him abruptly that she had never done this before. He allowed himself a smile, stroking his hand through her hair.

"Maker, you're wonderful," he breathed, his fingers lingering against the soft skin of her jaw. The gentle reassurance elicited a wicked grin from his beloved, and, with no further hesitation, she descended on him, her lips parting to take in the tip of his cock as her hands gripped his shaft with firm purpose. Loghain's hips bucked involuntarily at the sensation of Moira's sweet mouth ministering to him, and a cry of pleasure tore from his lips as he buried his hands into her tresses, willing himself not to urge her in deeper.

She began to take him in, at first hesitant, almost nervous; but soon she boldly moved against his cock, her lips and tongue caressing the firm skin of his manhood, her hands following with eager strokes along his length. Loghain's muscles trembled at the feel of her, the sight of her: her mouth eagerly swallowing his cock, little purrs of pleasure escaping from her throat as she took him in as deep as she dared. With an inarticulate growl he gripped her hair tight in balled-up fists, unable to resist thrusting his hips along with the movement of her sweet mouth. A tremor of divine pleasure rippled through him, and he knew his peak was imminent.

"Moira," he gasped, releasing her hair and moving his hands to clench tightly against her shoulders. "Moira, I'm going to come, you don't have to…"

But his words trailed off as, with a bold glance straight into his eyes, Moira took him in even deeper than before, her hands pumping his shaft with firm purpose. Loghain could spare no further thought before his climax overtook him, and with a guttural cry, he spilled into her waiting mouth. She made no move to shy away from him, her hands gripping him tight as she swallowed his seed. With a final, trembling shudder, he felt the last tremor of his release, and he sagged back against the narrow cot, boneless and undone. Moira ran her tongue along the softening length of his cock, placing one final, gentle kiss on the tip of his cockhead, before sliding into the cot next to him, snuggling into his waiting arms. He stared at her in wonderment, while she greeted him with an impish smile.

"Thank you," she murmured, nestling into his chest. "I've been wanting to do that for ages."

Loghain stared at his bold, passionate lover with a renewed sense of awe. "Moira… that was incredible." He felt a blush of embarrassment as he recalled what little warning he'd given her before he'd spilled himself – he knew women did not generally enjoy the taste of a man's seed, and he prided himself on his control. To come inside her mouth like a young buck in rut was profoundly shameful to him. "But you did not have to…" He paused awkwardly as she cast a curious glance at him, her eyebrows knit in puzzlement. "You did not have to swallow me. I do not expect you to finish me like that. I know it's not pleasant."

She stared at him incredulously before bursting into an astonished laugh. "Not pleasant?" She grinned up at him. "Loghain, I wanted you. I wanted to pleasure you. I wanted you in my mouth." She leaned in closer, and with a boldness that really should no longer surprise him, she kissed him on the mouth. He could taste the lingering salty musk of his seed on her lips. "I wanted to taste you. When will you stop apologizing for giving me what I want?"

He could only stare at her in amazement, until a rumbling laugh forced its way from deep in his chest, and then he gathered her in his arms, pulling her flush against him. Despite the delightful attentions she'd just ravished upon his manhood, he was aware of his desire stirring at the feel of her body pressed against him.

"What else do you want from me?" he murmured wickedly, leaning in to nip at her ear.

"Mmmm," she purred, her hands finding their way under his shirt. He obligingly lifted his arms as she slipped it from his back, tossing it to the deck of their cabin. "I'd like to admire my future husband's manly physique," she said, caressing her hands down the wiry hair that carpeted his chest. "And I suppose a bit of reciprocity would not be unappreciated."

He hummed in response, the thought of plunging his tongue into her sweet cunt sending another jolt to his rapidly-reawakening cock. "As my lady commands."

As it turned out, the private cabin had been a good idea after all.

* * *

 

Loghain leaned against the deck railing on the foredeck, enjoying the salty sea breeze that riffled through his hair. Moira still dozed in their cabin, and Loghain allowed a smirk of satisfaction to flit across his face at the memory of how thoroughly he had sated her. It had been a pleasant interlude, the likes of which they had not been at much liberty to enjoy in recent days, given the tensions in Denerim and Amaranthine. His smirk disappeared, replaced by a scowl as he considered what awaited them in Kirkwall. Dealing with the politics of Ferelden was bad enough – the notion of navigating foreign halls of power filled him with even less enthusiasm. Not to mention that he – and Moira, too, he knew for certain – felt well rid of the Grey Wardens, and had little enough desire to go courting them. And yet, it was a necessary duty, and he had always been one to understand and accept the demands of duty.

That did not mean he enjoyed the sight of the city approaching rapidly off the bow, with its dour black walls and forbidding statues flanking the port. He'd heard nothing good of Kirkwall from the traders and merchants who plied the seas between Gwaren and the Free Marches – they invariably described a teeming, desperate city filled with vagrants, pirates, and all other manner of distasteful rabble, ruled ineffectually by governing forces that were alternately tyrannical or toothless, and almost always corrupt. He scoffed. The sooner he and Moira could find a Grey Warden to drag back to Ferelden to look into the darkspawn situation in Amaranthine, the better.

"Well, that's a grim sight." He turned his head at the voice of his beloved, and banished the grimace from his face. He afforded her a knowing smile at her unintentional echo of his own thoughts, and shifted his arm so that she might lean against the deck rail next to him.

"Indeed. Welcome to Kirkwall," he intoned dryly.

"My tutor said they called it the City of Chains," Moira said. "I wonder if Andraste was brought through here when the Imperium enslaved her."

Moira's mention of Kirkwall's sordid history of slavery sent a ripple of discomfort through Loghain, and he pursed his lips and did not reply. He had tried not to dwell overmuch on the increasingly catastrophic decisions he'd made during his regency. Down that path lay madness, and he had certainly had enough of madness to last himself a lifetime. His relationship with Moira and his experiences at the Temple of Sacred Ashes had forced him to reckon with his guilt, for which he was grateful; but he was mindful as well of what the spirit of Maric had told him, that he served no one well by allowing regret and remorse to paralyze him. All he could do now was apply his lifetime of experience in battle and governance to help rebuild his country, and allow Moira's pure love for him to guide his heart to a place of genuine happiness.

And yet, of all his sins, the one he had reckoned with the least was the one that continued to trouble him. He could help rebuild Ferelden, and right what wrongs he'd committed in allowing the Blight to continue unchecked for far too long as he'd wasted valuable time and resources fighting Moira instead of the darkspawn. He could do what he could to ensure that Anora's reign was peaceful and prosperous, thus granting the country the stability it required after the death of the last Theirin king, a death he had done nothing to prevent. But of the Fereldan elves whom he had allowed Tevinter slavers to spirit out of Denerim and off to Maker knew where – what could he ever hope to do to make amends for the betrayal he had inflicted upon them? Had they passed through Kirkwall on their way to Minrathous, like the millions of slaves of the Old Imperium who had given the city its terrible name? Did they live comfortably in the manor home of a wealthy magister – as he'd once salved his conscience by imagining – or were they beaten, whipped, sacrificed as blood tributes to sate that same magister's insatiable hunger for ever greater power? He would never know, and it was the not knowing that galled him the most.

"Love?" Moira's voice cut through his ruminations, and he realized from her tone that she'd been trying to get his attention for some time. "Are you all right?"

"Just gathering wool." He did not want to burden her with memories of what a terrible man he'd become in the madness of the Blight – not after he'd so brutally reminded her in Amaranthine of the part he'd played in helping Rendon Howe avoid justice. For reasons unfathomable to him, Moira had chosen to forgive him, even in spite of all that he had done. He would never understand why, but he resolved to himself each morning that he would never allow her to regret her decision – to spare him, to forgive him, or to love him. And so he forced a wan smile to his lips, and took her hand in his.

"I suppose I'm just missing Ferelden already," he said. It was not a lie. "The sooner we can retrieve our Grey Wardens, the happier I'll be."

"Me too," she agreed, leaning into him. She glanced to him with an impish look. "I've got a wedding to plan, you know."

He smiled back at her, and squeezed her hand. Yes, they sooner they were out of this city, the better. It would be far easier to confront the ghosts of his past with such a pleasant future ahead of him.

The ship laid anchor at the Kirkwall docks, and the fetid smell of fishmongers and refuse assaulted Loghain at once. From the grimace on Moira's face, it was plain her reaction mirrored his.

"Lovely place," she said drolly. "Where do you suppose the Grey Warden garrison is?"

"Not here," he replied with equal lassitude. "I suppose we'd best make our presence known to the viscount. He ought to be able to steer us in the right direction."

Loghain took in the spectacle of the Kirkwall slums with a curious eye. Shortly past the docks, they passed a fortified compound, curiously guarded by a hulking horned qunari, who regarded Loghain and Moira with an intense but somehow non-hostile scrutiny. Loghain shared a puzzled glance with Moira, who shrugged – it was extraordinarily odd for the ox-men of Par Vollen to live among the Andrastian nations of the south, but the qunari occasionally ventured beyond their own lands, and – ever since the Llomerryn Accords, at any rate – were rarely openly hostile. The Kirkwallers seemed nonplussed by the presence of the great horned guards, and so Loghain and Moira continued through the throngs of beggars and vagrants, making their way towards the great gates at the top of the hill that divided the impoverished lower slums from the wealthy districts beyond.

"Excuse me, ser, I don't mean to be a bother, but just a copper, if you please, for my family?" A filthy man in rags materialized from the masses to offer a discreet tug at Loghain's sleeve. He turned toward the man, prepared to offer a curt dismissal, when the tone of the man's voice caught at his attention. The man's voice – and his features, and clothing – were Fereldan, and Loghain found himself both moved and angry that a fellow countryman had been reduced to such ruin in this fetid sewer of a city.

"You, man," he replied to the man. "Where are you from?"

The man brightened considerably, whether because he recognized that Loghain was a fellow Fereldan, or simply because someone had deigned to pay him the time of day. He did not seem to recognize Loghain in particular. "South Reach, ser," he said proudly. "The Blight drove us from our homes, and we had to sell everything we owned to get here. But the Kirkwallers don't want to hire us Fereldans for an honest day's work, and I can't feed my family without coin. Seeing my little ones' hungry faces is more than I can bear, and even though it shames me to beg, it shames me more to see them suffer."

Loghain's heart twisted in sympathy and indignation, and memories of long ago, of Fereldan peasants starving and begging for food while their masked overlords dined on the rich harvest of their fields, boiled to the surface.

"Here," he said, impulsively reaching into his coin purse and handing the man a silver. "Your children won't go hungry tonight. Take what's left and share it with your fellow countrymen. The Blight is over – Ferelden needs its sons and daughters, now more than ever. There is a place for you back home."

The man stared at Loghain in open-mouthed astonishment. "I… I can't believe… oh, thank you, ser!" A slow smile began to steal across his face, as though he were still skeptical of his sudden reversal of fortunes. "I'd heard that the Blight was over, but I never thought… I can't afford the trip home, but to go back, to rebuild my farm…" He shook his head, as if trying to dispel a pleasant but impossible dream. "I do appreciate your generosity, ser, make no mistake, but I can't afford passage for myself and my family. I'll at least rest easy knowing they won't go hungry tonight. Maker bless you and Maker bless the Hero of Ferelden!"

Moira, who had been watching the conversation with a quiet expression of loving pride, started when Loghain gently grasped her elbow and drew her close.

"Thank her yourself, good man," he said. Moira blushed deeply at Loghain's words, and at the man's eye-widening expression of growing disbelief.

"You're… you're the Lady Cousland, the Hero of the Blight?" he stammered. Moira smiled, and prepared to greet him, when at once he cast himself on the ground, at her feet.

"You saved us all! You saved Ferelden! Maker bless you, my lady! Maker bless your soul!"

"Oh! Oh, please, that's not necessary, kind sir," Moira stammered, and Loghain bit back his chuckle at the shade of bright crimson that suffused her cheeks. "No one needs to bow before me, please."

With reluctance, the man stood up, still gazing at Moira with unabashed reverence. "I'll tell my children that I saw you here – that the Hero of Ferelden came for us! You don't know what you've done for us today!" With a flush of overwhelmed gratitude, the man bowed deeply, again, and made his way, half-running, back into the slums, no doubt to tell his grand story to his family.

"That was a kind thing you did for that man," she said, taking Loghain's hand in hers and glancing up at him.

"All I did was give him some coin. You gave him hope. I'd say you deserve the greater thanks." He returned her smile, but it was soon chased away by thoughts of the man's dire predicament. "The Kirkwallers are no better than the Orlesians – treating us like mongrel dogs, unfit for anything but their scraps. I suppose at least Kirkwall didn't have the audacity to reduce us to penury in our own land."

"We have to do something for these people, Loghain," Moira said. "Hire a ship, bring them home, something! There's so much work to be done rebuilding the country, and they could help – they deserve better than being consigned to poverty in Kirkwall's slums!"

Loghain had known Moira long enough now that her essentially generous and kind nature should no longer come as any surprise to him, and yet he felt his heart constrict at the passion in her voice. "We will," he agreed. "We'll bring as many of them with us as we can. But first, we need to find the Grey Wardens." His countenance darkened. "It won't do any good to bring the refugees back to Ferelden if there are still darkspawn waiting to chase them from their homes."

They made their way through the city, observing as the streets became brighter, wider, and cleaner as they ascended the hill from the slums of Lowtown to the manors of Hightown. By the time they arrived at the Viscount's Keep, they were no longer pushing through throngs of beggars, but rather richly-attired merchants and nobles, all of whom cast withering glances at the two Fereldans as though they were as shabbily dressed as the slum dwellers of Lowtown. Loghain felt his ire building at every sideways glare and sniff of disdain, until he felt Moira take his hand in hers and give it a gentle squeeze.

"Just ignore these fools," she said. "I couldn't give a tinker's damn for Kirkwall's nobles, unless they can tell us where to recruit some Grey Wardens. Let's just find the Viscount's office."

When they at last arrived, they found themselves stymied by the most obnoxious bureaucratic gatekeeper Loghain had ever had the displeasure to meet in Seneschal Bran. At once supercilious and condescending, Bran tried to inform them that the waiting time for a meeting with the Viscount was approaching three weeks, and just when Loghain had angrily opened his mouth to retort, he felt the gentle pressure of Moira's hand on his arm.

"Oh, perhaps you misunderstood," she said sweetly. "I'm certain Viscount Dumar wouldn't want to keep the Hero of Ferelden waiting so long on Grey Warden business."

"Grey Warden business?" Bran sputtered, clearly taken aback. "Well… in that case… I'm sure some exceptions could be made… I'll handle the inconveniences, of course, although Lord Parkton is sure to raise a fuss…" The seneschal continued to mutter to himself as he brusquely showed them into the Viscount's antechamber, where a servant bowed deeply and immediately served them tea and biscuits on a silver tray.

"How quickly our fortunes have changed," Loghain quipped, picking up a tiny, delicate teacup between his thumb and forefinger. "Thank Andraste that little toady decided we were worth impressing after all. Maker forbid he permit mere peons to breathe such rarefied air."

"You're in fine form," Moira chided wryly, casting a sideways glance at him. "Do try not to antagonize the viscount before we find out where we can recruit the Grey Wardens."

"He has earned every ounce of my antagonism with the way he permits his city to maltreat the Blight refugees," Loghain growled. "He's no better than the Orlesians." That wasn't quite true, but his ire was rankled, and he was in no mood to be generous.

Viscount Dumar's appearance did little to alleviate Loghain's surly mood. The Viscount, a thin, balding man with watery eyes, hastened into the room from a private chamber, his manner distracted and weary. Loghain and Moira, both accustomed to the rituals of court, rose deferentially at his entrance, offering him a polite bow as he bustled to his seat. With an impatient hand, he waved at them to be seated.

"Bran tells me I speak with the Hero of Ferelden herself. You honor Kirkwall greatly with your presence, Lady Cousland." Moira bowed her head in acknowledgment of his praise, while Dumar turned his eyes to Loghain. "I'm afraid he did not get your name, serah. You must be a fellow Grey Warden?"

Loghain steeled himself and delivered the least complicated version of the truth. "Of a sort. I am Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, of Gwaren. Lady Moira is my betrothed."

Dumar's eyebrows shot up in curious interest. "Ah! I see. I did not realize the Hero was already spoken for. Congratulations." The viscount's eyes narrowed as he regarded Loghain with a more thorough scrutiny. "Teyrn Loghain, you say? Weren't you the regent for Ferelden's throne during the Blight? I'd heard you were deposed."

Loghain's brows creased into an involuntary scowl, but before he could respond, Moira's voice cut smoothly through the palpable tension. "There was a great deal of confusion and chaos during the Blight, Viscount. King Cailan was lost at the Battle of Ostagar, and most of the Grey Wardens were presumed dead. In the end, Teyrn Loghain joined the Grey Wardens, and I could not have ended the Blight without his assistance. He is as much a hero of Ferelden as I am." It was a heavily sanitized version of the truth, but none of it was technically untrue, and it would nip any gossipy speculation in the bud. Once again, Loghain marveled at how adroit his beloved was at navigating the halls of power.

"Of course. I meant no offense," Dumar replied with practiced ease. "But I am certain you did not travel all the way to Kirkwall to personally announce your impending nuptials."

"Unfortunately, no," Moira said. Loghain noticed as she paused briefly and bit at her lip, a habit she only indulged in when she was trying to figure out how best to begin an uncomfortable conversation. "As I'm sure you are aware, the Grey Wardens keep their – our – secrets close to the vest. I am not at liberty to tell you much about the recruitment process, but I can tell you that, unfortunately, the Grey Wardens in Ferelden do not currently have the strength of numbers necessary to defend our country. We have come to Kirkwall to recruit a small number of able Grey Wardens for the Ferelden garrison. We were hoping you would point us in the right direction."

Whatever Dumar had been expecting Moira to say, it hadn't been that. "You want me to help you recruit Grey Wardens?" he said disbelievingly. "You've come to the wrong man. The Wardens are not accountable to me, nor I to them. I'm afraid I can't help you."

Loghain fixed Dumar with a steely glare. "You're telling me you don't even know the name of the Warden-Commander of Kirkwall?"

"I – no, I do not know the Warden-Commander, nor any other Grey Wardens. The Blight did not threaten us here across the sea, and I have had no shortage of other crises to attend to in the past year. There are entrances to the Deep Roads scattered throughout the Vimmark Mountains – perhaps you'd have better luck searching for them out there. Between the qunari encampment and the ongoing tensions between Knight-Commander Meredith's templars and the apostates she seems to root out of every rat warren in the city, my hands are too full to be keeping tabs on the Grey Wardens, if you'll pardon my candor." Though Dumar's tone was irritable, the man himself seemed far more frazzled than short-tempered, an expression of strained anxiety stretched across his face like an ill-fitting mask. Loghain saw before him a weak leader, overburdened by the weight of his crown, and he realized that they'd gotten as far as they were going to get with the viscount.

Moira seemed to have come to the same conclusion, and she stood cordially, offering a perfunctory incline of her head to the beleaguered ruler. "I apologize for intruding on your time, Viscount. I am sure we will find the Grey Wardens with or without your assistance." Dumar frowned at the dig, but before he could reply, Moira turned to Loghain with an expression of innocuous curiosity. "We couldn't help but notice that your city is host to an overabundance of Fereldan citizens displaced by the Blight. They did not seem to have adequate means or shelter. It distresses me to see my countrymen treated so poorly in their time of need."

Dumar scowled deeper. "We opened the gates of our city to your Blight refugees, but Kirkwall is already overcrowded! There's little enough in the city coffers to provide for the needs of Kirkwallers, let alone foreigners with nothing to offer. I beg your pardon, Lady Cousland, but you must understand that my citizens' needs must come first. The Fereldans have brought crime and plague in their wake – even now, Lowtown is besieged by gangs of pickpockets and mercenaries, whose ranks have swelled ever since the Fereldans began entering my city in force. I have sympathy for the plight of your nation, but I cannot feed and clothe every Blight refugee. It simply can't be done."

"Then you should not object if we hire a merchant vessel to return our people to their homeland," Loghain rejoined, unable to keep the sneer from his voice. "If displaced Fereldans are such a nuisance to your otherwise orderly city, then perhaps it would be cost effective for you to subsidize their return. Five ships would be able to carry sixty refugees apiece – that's three hundred Fereldans out of your hair, and back where they belong. I think two hundred sovereigns ought to split the difference quite nicely."

Dumar glowered, and Loghain could even feel Moira glaring at him out of his peripheral vision. No, he hadn't been especially diplomatic, but hearing the problems of this dysfunctional city blamed on innocent Fereldans who had fled here for their lives had roused his ire ferociously.

"I suppose we could work out an agreement," Dumar said frostily. "If you promise to take these… refugees… with you on your return."

"We would be happy to," Moira agreed, her tone conciliatory but firm. "Please understand that we mean no offense; we only care about the welfare of our citizens, as I'm sure you understand well."

Dumar softened slightly at Moira's proffered olive branch, and he nodded. "Of course. I shall draw up the contract for the ships and have it delivered to you. Where in the city will you be staying?"

Loghain and Moira looked at each other – truthfully, they hadn't gotten that far. "Er, if there are any inns you'd recommend in particular, Viscount, we have not yet had a chance to secure lodgings. We came to speak with you straight away."

The Viscount hummed. "There are fine taverns in Hightown, of course, though some of them are… less seemly… than others. Lowtown is out of the question, of course –"

"No," Loghain interrupted suddenly. "If Lowtown is where the Fereldans are living, then we should stay there. I want to get an idea of how many refugees to account for, and if there are too many for us to take at once, then I want to speak to someone who knows them, to make sure those in the greatest need are prioritized – families, children, widows, the like."

Dumar looked uneasy. "Er… I would not presume to dictate to your lordships, but… Lowtown can be rather, er, seedy and dangerous. I would not wish you to experience any trouble while you are guests in my city."

"I assure you, Viscount, we can handle ourselves," Moira said with a sly grin. "The darkspawn are far more threatening than any two-bit alley thug could ever be."

So it was that they were given directions for the Hanged Man, a "typical Lowtown hole in the wall" according to Viscount Dumar, but one apparently known to be frequented by many of the Fereldans who had made their homes in Kirkwall. The sun had dipped just below the horizon as they passed through the gates of Hightown, and Loghain's senses were on high alert, knowing that whatever unsavory elements did skulk about in the slums would be out and about after dark.

They stuck to the main streets, avoiding the dark warren of narrow alleyways that crisscrossed the slums, but even that level of caution proved to be inadequate when a leather-clad rogue, a dagger held in each hand, materialized out of the shadows in front of them to block the thoroughfare.

Loghain and Moira instinctively reached for their blades, but the thug raised one of his daggers and waved it at them, as a parent might wave a chastening finger at a child.

"Ah ah," he said, in a thick Fereldan accent. "Wouldn't do that if I was you. I've got some mates with me, and it wouldn't end pretty for you." At his words, more thugs appeared from the shadows, and, with a sinking stomach, Loghain realized they were surrounded.

"What are such a finely-tailored pair as yourselves doing in Lowtown at this time of night, anyhow?" the thug mused. "Newcomers, must be? Well, I imagine this is the last time you'll make that mistake. Don't worry – we just want your coin, not your lives. Unless you fight back. Which, to be clear, I wouldn't do if I was you, because me and my boys – well, we're spoiling for a fight. Been a long time since we got to stick it to such fine Hightown toffs."

"We're no more from Hightown than you are," Loghain snarled, and boldly drew his sword. "But if a fight is what you want, you'll have one. I've handled worse from better men than you."

"Oi! Seamus! They're from the old country!" one of the thugs next to the boss said. "I don't think Boss wants us attacking our own. He said just to stick to the Hightown types and the Orlesians."

"Shut it, you!" Seamus snarled. "I'm in charge! These berks got gold that'll spend as good as anyone else's! I don't care if they're from Ferelden or not!"

"Well, I do," another thug chimed in. "Boss said we gotta stick together, not fight amongst ourselves. And _he's_ in charge, not you, Seamus, so suck it."

"You suck it, you floppy twat!"

"Well, we'll just be going, then," Moira chirped, and cast an emphatic glance at Loghain, jerking her head towards the street corner and away from the squabbling thugs. Loghain agreed without protest, and they had just begun to move past the gang when a voice cut through the bickering ruffians like a cold steel blade.

"Is there a problem here, boys?" This voice too belonged to a Fereldan man, though it lacked the rough, guttural inflection of the street thugs. At once, the quarreling rogues fell silent.

A man in leather armor slipped from the shadows so close to Moira and Loghain that they were certain he must have been there the entire time, watching the scene play out. He was lean, but well-built, and his armor was of decent quality, as were the vicious looking daggers that were sheathed casually at his sides – he was certainly no starving refugee.

"My sincere apologies," he said, fixing a hard-eyed gaze on both Loghain and Moira in turn, though a hint of a sardonic smile played at the corner of his mouth. "My Dog Lords can be a bit overzealous at times. I've strictly instructed them not to harass any fellow Fereldans, but apparently Seamus here didn't receive the memo." He shot a dagger-sharp glare at the first thug, and Seamus swallowed audibly, unable to meet his 'boss's' face. "We have to stick together in these troubled times. Maker knows Kirkwall won't give us a copper, so we decided to take what we need – but never from each other. Isn't that right, lads?"

A chorus of 'ayes' greeted their ears, and Boss nodded at them sagely. "Good boys. Now run on home – I'll see to it that these fine folks make it though without any further delays. We'll talk later." Seamus nervously darted his eyes to the ground as the thugs melted into the shadows, and Loghain couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for the reaming that awaited the poor stupid sod.

"Once again, my sincere apologies," Boss said. His tone was sincere, but there was a hardness to his voice that betrayed his suspicions of what, exactly, would have brought Moira and Loghain – obviously Fereldan, but just as obviously not refugees – to Lowtown at night. Loghain couldn't help but respect the man's canny instincts, even if he did appear to be some sort of criminal ringleader. "I try to keep my Dog Lords on a tight leash, but times are tough. It's best that strangers not move through Lowtown at night by themselves. So," he said, fixing each of them with that hardened stare once more, "you're not from Kirkwall, that much is plain, so you're here on business. The question becomes: is your business legitimate, or less so?" He chuckled. "Not that _I_ care, mind you. Maker knows I'm not in a position to cast any stones. But let's just say that I like to be apprised of everything that happens in Lowtown. So – what brings you to the slums of Kirkwall after dark?"

Moira and Loghain exchanged a wary glance – this man had stopped his gang from attacking them, but that didn't make him trustworthy. Still, his words held wisdom – they _were_ strangers, and this was clearly a dangerous place to wander around alone without a local guide to keep the seedier elements at bay.

"We're here to find Grey Wardens to recruit for Ferelden," Moira replied. "Viscount Dumar was no help."

Boss scoffed audibly, and spit on the ground. "Viscount Dumar is fucking useless. That's no surprise." He sobered, and gave Moira a thoughtful look. "And who from Ferelden is recruiting Grey Wardens? You're surely not the Hero of the Blight."

An uncomfortable silence stretched on for a beat, and as Moira uncomfortably shifted, the man's face blanched.

"Oh, Maker, you are," he said, and there was no trace of hard cynicism in his voice. "You're Lady Cousland, aren't you?"

"I am," she admitted. "Just – please don't bow." She gestured at Loghain. "And this is Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir. He fought the Blight alongside me, as a Grey Warden." At the introduction of Loghain, the man's face darkened considerably.

"Teyrn Loghain. That's right – I'd heard you became a Grey Warden after your fall from grace." He regarded Loghain with a searing scrutiny. "I was at Ostagar, you know. With my brother. I was there when you sounded the retreat and betrayed the king. Never thought I'd actually see your face."

Loghain felt his stomach clench. "I am sorry you had to witness such butchery," he said. "But I am not sorry for the decision I made. The battle was doomed from the start. Had I not sounded the retreat, we would not be having this conversation, because we would both be dead. I did what I thought was best. I will not apologize for that."

Boss stared hard at Loghain for several tense moments, and Loghain was unsure if his revelation had just squandered the fellow-countrymen camaraderie that the stranger had extended to them. At last, however, he rocked back on his heels, exhaling a long breath and running a hand through his hair.

"It can't have been an easy decision to make," he said carefully. "Still… best you avoid Aveline. She's still pretty bitter about the whole thing." Shaking his head, he regarded Loghain and Moira with a glimmer of newfound respect.

"So – Grey Wardens, you say? I think I might be able to be of some help. I… know some Grey Wardens. And I think she – they might be amenable to going to Ferelden."

Loghain and Moira shared another curious glance. "Well, that's a better lead than we've had all day," Moira said. "Do you mind showing us to the Hanged Man? We'll be staying there while in Kirkwall. Perhaps we can speak more about these Grey Wardens there."

The man's eyebrows shot up. "The Hanged Man? Well, there's a coincidence. I was headed there myself. My friend… well, he claims he doesn't run the place, but that's a lie. Most everything Varric says is a lie, but he's the most trustworthy man you'll ever meet. I'll make sure your drinks are on the house. The least I can do for the Heroes of Ferelden." His smile was wry, but sincere.

"Thank you," Loghain said. "We appreciate the hospitality. There's been little enough of it in this town. We are grateful, Ser…" He trailed off, realizing that the man had never introduced himself.

"Oh, how rude of me," Boss said. He thrust out a hand, which Moira and Loghain took in turn. His handshake was firm and sure. "The name's Hawke. Galen Hawke. Welcome to the real Kirkwall."


	22. Ghosts of the Past

Although her tenure as a Grey Warden had allowed Moira to experience the sort of seedy locales that had been strictly off-limits to her as a proper noble lady, she was quite certain she'd never been anywhere quite as 'colorful' as the Hanged Man. She and Loghain had followed Hawke hesitantly through the forbidding streets of Lowtown, each of them alert and with hands that never strayed far from the hilts of their weapons, despite Hawke's assurances that none of the local lowlives would dare harm them in his presence. Eventually, they arrived at a ramshackle dump of a tavern with a strung-up effigy dangling above the doorway in morbid salutation. The raucous bellowing of the clientele could be heard even from the street outside.

"You don't look like the sort of folk who make a habit of patronizing this type of establishment. No offense," Hawke said, a distinct undercurrent of mockery giving edge to the mirth in his voice. Though his words had been directed at them both, his eyes were fixed on Moira, who bristled. Whatever respect Hawke had for her as the Hero of Ferelden had clearly not mitigated his opinion of her as a naïve rich girl who didn't have enough sense not to go for a nighttime stroll through the crime-ridden streets of Lowtown, and Moira found herself meeting his eyes with what she hoped was an appropriately stern glare. He might be offering to help them now, but Moira was quite certain she didn't entirely trust this shadowy rogue, whether he was Fereldan or not.

"You'd be surprised where a Grey Warden's duty takes her in the course of ending the Blight," Moira retorted lightly. "Haunted forests, dens of abominations, the Deep Roads, and sometimes even to a squalid tavern or two. I think I'll manage. No offense." Expecting a scowl from the crime boss, Moira was somewhat surprised when he rewarded her with wry laughter, and a gleam in his eyes that seemed almost respectful.

"Fair enough. If you can handle the Archdemon, I suppose you can handle the Hanged Man. There are far fewer darkspawn, though far more drunken vagabonds. Mind your coinpurse, and don't say I didn't warn you." He pushed open the door, and the light from the tavern flooded into the street, beckoning them forth with warmth and revelry.

Moira paused behind Loghain to take in Hawke's features, illumined in the light from the Hanged Man. He reminded her a fair bit of Fergus – he had the same light brown eyes, and the same coppery-red hair, cropped just short enough to rest against the nape of his neck – though Moira was sure Fergus had never looked this hard, this lean and hungry, even after he'd been left for dead by Howe's thugs. Hawke's face was clean-shaven, though a dusting of stubble grazed his jaw rakishly. A growing smirk alerted Moira that Hawke had not remained blind to her assessment, and with a flush, she stalked past the rogue and into the Hanged Man.

Hawke quickly secured for them a table in the corner, away from the door and most of the ruckus near the bar. Moira took in the chaos with wary eyes, mindful of Hawke's advice, and began to realize that the wildest night at the Pearl couldn't begin to compare to the sheer riot that was the Hanged Man. A group of men who looked like they were probably pirates were engaged in a loud rendition of what sounded like a sea shanty, the "verses" punctuated by emphatic banging of flagons on the table, while a scantily-clad serving wench flitted between the tables, delivering tankards of ale with muttered epithets as she deftly avoided the roving hands of boorish patrons. A shirtless, impossibly buff qunari man leaned casually against the far wall, though he appeared disinclined to join in the revels.

"We were told this tavern was a popular establishment for many of the displaced Fereldan refugees," Loghain said, his tone making it clear that he was beginning to doubt the veracity of that information. "I suppose we were fortunate in meeting you, since you seem to have a keener finger on the pulse of the Fereldan community in Kirkwall than Viscount Dumar. Once our business for the Grey Wardens is concluded, we had intended to purchase passage back to Ferelden for as many of our fellow countrymen as we can fit aboard our chartered ships."

"Really?" There was a measure of subdued respect in Hawke's voice that had been absent before. "That's… very generous of you. It's been so long since I've met anyone else both willing and able to do anything for the Blight refugees." Hawke ran his hands through his hair. "There's… well, I know someone else who has been helping them out quite a bit. We should go pay him a visit tomorrow, although I'll warn you – he can be a bit of a wanker about strangers. A bit of a wanker in general, although I won't deny he's done good work for the sorts of people who usually end up forgotten in a pisshole like Kirkwall."

Loghain and Moira exchanged a hopeful glance. "That sounds promising, Hawke. Thank you," Moira said. She glanced askance at Hawke. "You, and any of your family with you, are welcome to join us, of course."

A strange look flitted across Hawke's eyes for just long enough for Moira to notice, and then his face again assumed the expression of nonchalance he wore so naturally. "That won't be necessary," he said, and Moira caught the faintest hint of strain beneath his easy tone. "I'm doing well enough for myself, and Maker knows there are enough of us who aren't. As for my family, well… we've each gotten used to being here in our own way." There was a vaguely anticipatory pause after his words, and Hawke took a sip of his ale before regarding Moira and Loghain with a serious expression.

"So, that Grey Warden I know? She's my sister, Bethany. It's not – it shouldn't have happened, but it's not like she had a choice, was it?" The words came out in a bitter rush, and from the way Hawke glared angrily at his ale, Moira wondered, as the revelation washed over her, what the circumstances had been to cause Hawke such pain. Her eyes met Loghain's as they shared a surprised glance, and as she saw the gentle concern in Loghain's expression, she knew she must have looked as shocked as she felt. Was there any circumstance in which joining the Grey Wardens didn't leave a trail of pain and betrayal in its wake?

"I'm sorry," Moira said, suppressing her own feelings of remembered resentment and helpless fear as she allowed her empathy for Hawke's sister to override her instinctive reaction. She knew all too well how Hawke felt. "I don't believe becoming a Grey Warden is ever a choice anyone really makes willingly." At Hawke's darkening expression, Moira realized that now was not the time to voice her own lamentation about the unjust fate of the Grey Wardens. Whatever had happened that had led to Bethany's Joining, the last thing her brother needed to hear was a funeral dirge from someone who knew all too well what a poor lot the Wardens had.

"It is a noble calling," Moira said, and she felt Loghain's hand on her leg as she spat the lies from her lips before she could choke on them. "A Grey Warden's life is hard, I won't lie, but I hope your sister can take comfort in knowing that her duty is both necessary and just." That, at least, was mostly true.

Hawke scoffed, and for a moment, it seemed as though he wanted to say something more; but then he retreated into silence, and Moira did not press him. At last, he lifted his flagon and took a sip of ale. "You're in luck, actually. She's coming into town tomorrow. I'm sure my mother will be disappointed that her tearful reunion with her baby girl is being interrupted by a couple of Grey Wardens, but the thought of Beth going back to Ferelden with the Hero herself will probably assuage her."

Moira wasn't sure how she felt at being invited to interrupt the Hawke family reunion, but this Bethany Hawke did sound like the best lead they had so far – a native Fereldan, who, if she shared the same mixed feelings about her fate that her brother seemed to, could be trusted not to enact the sorts of dubious Grey Warden politics that had so imperiled them all during the Blight. She'd need more than one inexperienced Warden, but this was a good start, at least.

"There you are, you sexy bastard." A voice that Moira could only describe as sultry washed over the table, and before she or Loghain could react, a woman dressed in what looked to be a busty corset and a pair of thigh-high boots swung into Hawke's lap, her legs straddling his waist as she gave him a decidedly unchaste kiss. Moira stared in blinkered shock at the brazen display, and a quick glance over at her fiancé revealed that he seemed as mortified as she. Moira could not stop staring at the woman's legs, her tanned skin exposed as her tunic hitched up around her waist. Was she not wearing any trousers?

"Ah, Isabela," Hawke murmured after he surfaced for air, "we're being terribly rude. I'm meeting with some very important guests at the moment."

With a careless glance, the woman tossed her head over her shoulder to look at Hawke's company, and Moira was struck with an overwhelming sense of recognition – she had seen this woman before, but she couldn't put her finger on where, or when.

"Maker's balls," Isabela gasped. "I remember you! The Hero of Ferelden in the flesh!" The saucy woman gave her a decidedly licentious smirk. "Pity you didn't decide to take me up on my offer, love. We would've had a smashing time."

At once the pieces clicked into place. "You're Isabela, the pirate from the Pearl," Moira said. She could feel the heat of Loghain's inquisitive glance boring into her, her betrothed no doubt very curious to know exactly how, and under what circumstances, she had met a randy pirate in Denerim's most notorious brothel.

"The one and the same," Isabela breezed. "Although I'm a bit sadly shipwrecked these days. Hence why I'm stuck in this cesspit of a city with angry qunari barbarians on one side and overly zealous templars on the other."

"Come now, it's not _all_ bad," Hawke soothed, his hand shamelessly trailing up Isabela's bare leg. Moira tried not to stare. Maker's breath, she really didn't seem to be wearing any pants at all.

"Not since you marched your gorgeous arse into my bar, anyway," she cooed, her own hand sliding along Hawke's leather-clad thigh. "Before you sauntered in, all piss and vinegar, there was no one remotely intriguing in this rat hole of a tavern." She cast a lascivious glance back at Moira and Loghain. "That might have just changed, however." The look in her eyes was unmistakable, and Moira blushed hotly under the heat of Isabela's appraisal. Her face reddened for an entirely different reason when the pirate's seductive gaze wandered over to Loghain and lingered for what Moira thought to be an entirely indecent amount of time.

"And look what we have here," she hummed. "If I'm not mistaken, you're Loghain Mac Tir, aren't you? Weren't you the big bad, the traitor teyrn who stole the crown?" Despite her words, there was no admonishment in Isabela's expression – if anything, Loghain's notoriety seemed to heighten her obvious interest.

If Loghain noticed that Isabela's gaze was less than chaste, he gave no indication. "Things change," he said gruffly.

Isabela grinned lewdly. "I'll bet they do, big boy. It's a good thing Miss Hero saved your bacon – you're far too gorgeous for the gallows."

This was entirely too much. Loghain seemed too taken aback for words, but Moira was not about to sit by passively while some brazen hussy of a pirate pantslessly flaunted her wares in front of her man. She cleared her throat loudly, casting what she hoped was her best 'back off' glare at Isabela.

Her effrontery had rather the opposite effect, as Isabela chuckled in rich amusement. "Oh, pish, don't be jealous," she scolded gently, as a mother might chastise a child who pouted at being asked to share the last cookie. "You had your chance – ohhh." She nodded in sudden understanding. "You two are…" She made a crude gesture with her finger sliding into the fist of her other hand, clearly meant to simulate sexual intercourse.

Loghain harrumphed loudly. "If you absolutely must know, Moira is my fiancée, and I have no interest in your transparent advances, wench."

"Oooh, _wench_! I haven't been called a wench in a bronto's age! I bet you're a real firecracker in bed." Ignoring Loghain and Moira's scandalized blushes, Isabela smirked at Moira. "Before you get all prissy with me, I'm not trying to steal your man. I'm happy to share, if you like."

Moira didn't think her face could burn any redder, but she felt a renewed blast of heat flush her cheeks. "I don't think that would be appropriate, no," she managed. "We're not really the sharing sort."

If Isabela was disappointed, she didn't show it. "Ah, well," she tossed her shoulders in a careless shrug. "Can't blame a girl for trying." She turned back to Hawke, who seemed entirely nonplussed by the whole encounter. "Guess it's just you and me again tonight."

"It doesn't bother you at all that your woman blatantly solicits other lovers while sitting astride your lap?" Loghain sputtered incredulously at Hawke. Hawke merely shrugged.

"Isabela's a free spirit. I could no more lay claim to her than I could to the sea," Hawke said. Loghain scoffed and made no attempt to hide his elaborate eye roll as Isabela treated Hawke to a peck on the nose.

"Aren't you just the sweetest," she purred. "But if our esteemed guests aren't here to enjoy the finer delights of the Hanged Man – and more's the pity – then I should let you get on with it."

"Oh, no need to run off," Hawke demurred, tightening his arm around Isabela's waist. "The Heroes of Ferelden and I were actually discussing the situation in the old country. They've offered to take some of the refugees back home, but they're still having a bit of a darkspawn problem. They came here searching for Grey Wardens to recruit."

"Grey Wardens?" Isabela chuckled ruefully. "Maybe they can take that sorry bastard with them. Maker knows he goes on about the Wardens enough."

"Oh, the 'Prince of Ferelden?'" Hawke laughed. "I think they're looking for real recruits, dear, not raving drunkards."

A cold, hard lump formed in Moira's stomach as an ugly but inescapable premonition descended on her. Without thinking, she quickly glanced over to Loghain, whose stiffening posture and tightly pursed lips told her that his intuition had arrived at the same conclusion. "Wait, who is this 'Prince of Ferelden?' What is his name?"

Hawke glanced at her askance. "His name? Who knows? You can't seriously be that hard up for recruits, can you? The man's a lunatic! Always ranting about how he's the 'Prince of Ferelden' and that Teyrn Loghain deserved to hang for his crimes, and how the Grey Wardens let him down." He cast a slightly apologetic glance at Loghain. "No offense. My guess is that he had a few screws knocked loose at Ostagar." At Moira's horrified expression, Hawke's features softened slightly. "Look, I don't mean to laugh at the poor bugger. Ostagar left its scars on all of us, and I'm not one to judge. But trust me, the man's not Warden material. Maybe some of the other refugees would be good with a blade –"

"Speak of the devil," Isabela said, sliding off of Hawke's lap and taking position next to his chair. She nodded her head towards the door of the Hanged Man, which swung open with a loud crash. A clenching, panicked terror gripped Moira's insides as she forced herself to look.

"Barkeep!" Alistair bellowed as he swaggered unsteadily into the tavern. "Your strongest ale, and be quick about it!" He tossed a handful of coppers onto the bar, which the barkeeper acknowledged with a grunt.

Moira was frozen, unable to move or breathe. Alistair – once such a dear friend, who had abandoned her when she'd most needed him, and who she'd truly never thought she'd ever see again – stood before her, a ghost from the past. A wave of emotion crashed over her as she took him in.

He was changed, and yet the same. His hair had grown out a bit, and there was a rough cast to his face that hadn't been there before, but otherwise, he was as she remembered – she saw the same devil-may-care bravado, the same feckless glibness in his eyes. His clothes were modest, but not ragged, though it was clear he'd been in them for some time, and he was, as Hawke and Isabela had warned, clearly very deep in his cups.

Moira wanted more than anything for Alistair to turn around and walk right back out of the Hanged Man, for him to leave and never know that she and Loghain had ever been in Kirkwall at all. As much as a part of her yearned to reach out to her old friend, to tell him that she wanted to close the rift between them, she was no longer naïve enough to believe that such wounds could be mended by a simple round of apologies.

But, of course, she was not so fortunate.

Alistair, flagon of ale in hand, turned from the bar and strode directly towards their table. At first, he either didn't notice her, or was too dumbstruck by the incongruity of seeing his own ghost in such an unfamiliar and unexpected location. As he drew closer, the light of recognition dawned in his eyes, and a sick feeling of dread settled into Moira's stomach at the baleful expression that slowly transformed his gentle features.

"Well, look who it is," he said, loud enough to cut through the general din. "The Hero of Ferelden in the flesh, come to grace us with her presence! All hail the conqueror of the Blight!" Alistair gestured grandly towards Moira with a flourish, and the chatter died down as the tavern goers turned towards Moira, sensing the impending entertainment of a brewing confrontation.

"Alistair." Moira's voice was quiet and subdued. "It's been a long time. I hope you've been well." She felt Loghain beside her, as taut as a drawn bowstring, and she prayed silently to Andraste that he would permit his sense to overcome his pride and let her handle the situation.

"Do you? I rather doubt that," he drawled. "I doubt you've bothered to spare a moment's thought for me. Not with your pet traitor at your beck and call." He spared a withering glare for Loghain. "It must be nice, to betray your king and crown and end up with a posh gig alongside the mighty Hero! I hope she at least makes you muck out the Warden stalls. It's the least you deserve, you treacherous piece of –"

"You deign to harangue me about treason? You, who broke your vows and abandoned your order because you were denied the pleasure of seeing my head on a pike?" Loghain growled. Moira closed her eyes in dismay. Clearly, Andraste wasn't listening today. She knew she could talk Alistair down, but if Loghain gave him an opportunity to get worked up, this could only end in shouted recriminations – or worse. She put her hand on Loghain's shoulder and gave him a gentle but firm squeeze.

"Loghain served with honor and courage during the Blight, Alistair," she said, attempting to appease both her lover's pride and her former comrade's fury. "As you did, once. I know you were upset about what happened at the Landsmeet –"

"Upset." Alistair's voice was flat and disbelieving. "'Upset' doesn't begin to cover it. You abandoned me, Moira. In front of all those people, you spared _him_ –" he jerked his head contemptuously at Loghain – "and let his viper of a daughter sentence me to death because my dear old dad couldn't keep his hands off the kitchen wenches, and – oops! – dear old dad just happened to be the king. Don't you _dare_ lecture me about the Landsmeet."

"You abandoned _me_!" she retorted, her patience slipping. "You decided to leave the Wardens when you didn't get your way about Loghain! Anora wouldn't have had recourse to exile you if you hadn't made your intentions perfectly clear! You could've stayed and fulfilled your oath, but _you_ left! _You_ ran away! Don't _you_ dare blame me for your choices!" Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs as long-suppressed resentments came percolating to the surface. She knew she needed to keep her head, but having Alistair here before her, _still_ refusing to take responsibility for himself or his actions –

"Oh, you know that, do you?" he spat sarcastically. "If I'd just played nice with the butcher of Ostagar, everything would've been hunky dory? We'd have all been one big happy family, complete with laughs and smiles and wholesome Sunday dinners? Fat bloody chance. You heard that bitch Anora. I'm too much of a threat to the crown to remain alive."

Loghain shot to his feet, and Moira, whose hand had still been resting on his shoulder, was thrown off balance. She grabbed the edge of the table and stood shakily beside Loghain, who was palpably tense with rage.

"You mind your tongue, or I will mind it for you, whelp," he growled, his hands balling unconsciously into fists. "You will not speak of your queen in such a vile fashion."

"She's not my queen, remember?" Alistair retorted. "I have no queen. I have no kingdom. I have _nothing_ , thanks to you."

Loghain growled low in his throat, and made to move, but Moira slipped in front of him, placing her hands on his chest. "Loghain, please," she said, her voice soft but urgent. "Don't take the bait." She looked into her lover's eyes, and found them hard with icy fury. She moved her hands against him, a barely perceptible caress, but it was enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes, to soften his gaze ever so slightly.

Alistair observed this interaction with a growing expression of horror and revulsion. "Maker's balls," he said, his voice thick with loathing. "Are you two –" He seemed so overcome with disgust that he was unable to complete the thought.

Moira hesitated for only a moment, torn between fanning the flames of Alistair's wrath or denying the most important relationship of her life. In the end, it wasn't even a choice.

"Loghain is my betrothed," she said, as evenly as possible, imploring for calm with unspoken urgency. "We fell in love during the Blight. He's not the man you think he is, Alistair."

It was the wrong thing to say. "Not the man I think he is?" Alistair repeated, dumbfounded. "So… he's not a traitor? He didn't betray the king and the army at Ostagar? He didn't send a blood mage to Redcliffe, or an abomination to the Circle, or hire an assassin to murder us because we might expose his lies about the Grey Wardens? Tell me, Moira, which of those things isn't true?" He paused for a dramatic moment, but before Moira could gather her thoughts to respond, he plowed ahead. "Oh, that's right! _They're all true!_ And you're apparently willing to look the other way because, what, he's a good fuck? I never thought you'd whore your honor so cheaply."

If Moira had only just been able to contain Loghain's rage at Alistair's insults to Anora, she was utterly unable now. He stormed into the center of the tavern and slammed his fist into Alistair's jaw, laying the younger man out on the floor with the force of the blow.

"How dare you?" Loghain roared. His normally coolly composed features were twisted in rage, and Moira trembled – she'd never seen him so furious, not even at the Landsmeet. "This woman –" He swept his arm out behind him, gesturing at Moira – "killed the Archdemon and ended the Fifth Blight. It was a dearly bought victory, for which she nearly paid with her life! She faced her death with courage, because it was her duty, and because she was prepared to die to save all of Thedas! And _you_ – " He whipped back to Alistair, who had staggered to his feet, holding his jaw in his hand. "You ran away with your tail between your legs like the mewling coward you are! You aren't fit to polish her boots."

"And yet she shares her bed with the greatest traitor in Fereldan history," Alistair said, undeterred. "You know what they say about lying down with dogs."

With another bellow of rage, Loghain charged at Alistair, but this time Alistair was ready. He lunged into Loghain, and the two men grappled furiously, exchanging blows amid the hooting and cheering of the drunken tavern revelers. Alistair, though younger, was no match in his inebriated state for Loghain, and with a roar, Loghain sent him crashing through a table, shattering the wood and spilling a table of flagons across the tavern floor. This time, Alistair groaned and rolled around on the floor, and did not look to be getting up any time soon.

"Behold! The man who would be king!" Loghain cried, turning his baleful glare to the drunken spectators. "The great Prince Alistair Theirin, heir of Calenhad!" With one last furious glower at Alistair's prone form, he marched back to their table.

"A fitting end to a miserable day," he growled. "Perhaps we should retire." It was clear from his tone that he didn't intend his words as a suggestion.

Moira's emotions roiled, as tempestuous as the seas. She loved Loghain dearly, and it warmed her heart that he was so eager to leap to her defense; but the sight of Alistair, defeated and crumpled on the floor, brought no righteous sense of vindication or triumph.

Hawke and Isabela, who had wisely refrained from interfering in the entire sordid drama, must have noticed Moira's conflicted reaction to Alistair, glancing at each other before Isabela met Moira's gaze with sympathy. "Hey, don't worry about him," she said, nodding her head towards Alistair. "We'll make sure he gets cleaned up and dried out."

"Thank you," she said sincerely. She knew she was the last person Alistair would want to see right now – and, truth be told, she was not overly fond of him at the moment, either, after the hateful things he'd said. But all she felt now, as she watched him groaning and writhing about on the floor, was pity, and shame.

"To the Void with him," Loghain said coldly. "You heard what he had to say about Moira. I don't give a tinker's damn for his opinion of me." He paused. "Maker's breath, most of it is true, after a fashion. I have had much to atone for. But Moira is beyond reproach, and I won't suffer a coward and a deserter impugning her honor."

Moira knew she should agree with him – what Alistair had said about her was monstrously unfair, and he was not without sins of his own, as Loghain correctly pointed out. But she found herself more angered than comforted by Loghain's condemnation of her wayward former friend.

"Perhaps we should retire." She echoed his statement of earlier, meeting his eyes with a look that brooked no argument. "I'm sure Hawke and Isabela can put things to rights down here." She spared a grateful glance at the rogue and the pirate. "I'm terribly sorry our first meeting went so pear-shaped. We don't usually get into vicious bar brawls."

"Well, don't tell me that. Here I was starting to think you were more fun than I gave you credit for," Hawke quipped. "Don't worry – this is one of the tamer fights the Hanged Man's seen this week. We'll get it sorted." He winked. "See you tomorrow in Hightown, Hero."

"Right. Goodnight, Hawke, Isabela." Moira felt a sudden enervating exhaustion seep through her as she stalked up the stairs, expecting Loghain to follow. She'd already forgotten that she'd agreed to meet with Hawke's Warden sister in the morning. Well, at least she'd scored one recruit for the Fereldan Wardens – the trip wouldn't be a total wash.

_There is another Fereldan Warden here,_ her mind supplied. _Whether you could get him to come with you after that display is another matter_. That was a far too complicated question for tonight, however.

She did not speak to Loghain as she slipped the key Hawke had given her into the door of their rented room, and it was only after he'd closed the door firmly behind them that he gently took her elbow in his hand.

"Moira." He turned her around to look at him. He'd calmed down considerably from the height of his rage, but a heated tension still pulsed from him, his blood hot from the fight. As vexed as she was, she couldn't help but feel her own arousal stirring at the sight of her lover keyed up from a bar brawl in which he had defended her honor victoriously. "What is the matter? You seem upset."

"I am upset, Loghain! There was no need for you to humiliate him like that!" The words burst forth from her without thought, her exhaustion too great to permit tactful expression.

Loghain's expression darkened. "No? You approved of his words, then? You think yourself a whore who sold your honor so you could warm my bed?" He moved closer to her, and she could feel the heat radiating from him.

"You know I don't think that. Don't be absurd," she said, struggling to keep her hands from drifting up to palm his broad chest. "What he said was out of line. But he's not a bad person, Loghain. He's not usually like that. He was drunk, and he's still hurting from what happened at the Landsmeet. You decking him in the middle of a crowded tavern didn't help matters."

"He's still hurting? Well, let's get him a warm bottle of milk and a soft blanket, shall we? Should I tuck him in at night, too? Read him a bedtime story?" He snorted in disdain. "Alistair is a grown man, Moira. Does he think he alone has suffered pain and loss in this world? Is his loss so great as to justify abandoning all his duties and obligations? How fortunate for all of Thedas that you were possessed of more strength of spirit than your wayward friend."

"Do you think I'm not keenly aware of his weaknesses? Did you think I wanted to take command of our mission, mere weeks after being forced into a Joining that I never wanted or asked for? Do you know how much I resented Alistair for abdicating his responsibilities to me?" Moira shot back. "I know how flawed he is. I also know he has a good heart, and a gentle spirit. He doesn't deserve your hatred, Loghain."

"He wants to see me swinging from the nearest gallows," Loghain retorted. "Or don't you recall? And now he hates you for the unpardonable sin of keeping me alive. Am I supposed to embrace him as a lost brother and let bygones be bygones?"

"You don't have to embrace him!" she exploded in frustration. "But you could _try_ not to go out of your way to antagonize him further!"

"Oh, so that little display downstairs was my fault, I take it? Tell me, Moira, how I was to avoid 'antagonizing' a man who is enraged by my very continued existence?" Loghain scowled at her. "Do you regret choosing to spare me over him? Is that it?"

Moira stared at her fiancé in wild disbelief. "Oh, for the Maker's sake, _no_! What an absolutely ridiculous thing to say! I love you, Loghain, how many times must I make myself plain?"

"Then why are you so irate with me for defending you against one who would impugn your honor?" he burst. "Moira, whether or not Alistair was once your friend, what he said about you was despicable and false, and I will not stand for it! What kind of betrothed – what kind of _man_ would I be if I allowed a drunken cur to slander you openly and willfully?"

Moira opened her mouth to spit out a heated reply, but any words she might have formed died in her throat. She was still cross with him for letting the confrontation with Alistair spiral so thoroughly out of control, but she could not find true fault in his logic, even as full of masculine pride and bluster as it was. She supposed, from Loghain's point of view, she understood why he could not let an insult against her stand, but it continued to annoy her that he refused to even try to see Alistair as she saw him – as a flawed but fundamentally good man.

"I'm not angry that you defended me, although I am quite capable of defending myself, you know," she said, a vestige of irritation clinging to her voice. "I just wish you'd at least make an effort to be diplomatic every now and then."

Loghain harrumphed loudly. "Yes, well, I will be certain to lay out a spread of tea and biscuits for the next raving drunkard who calls for my execution and slanders my beloved as a cheap whore. Will that satisfy?"

Moira glared hotly at her fiancé. "Oh, now you're just being insufferable."

"Am I?" he rejoined, and Moira's breath caught in her throat as he slipped his arms around her waist. "Well, I think you're blinded by your idealism and your misplaced loyalty to one who does not deserve it."

"And you're hindered by your stubborn inability to attempt to handle delicate situations with tact and subtlety instead of charging in like a bull in a curio shop," she said, unable to resist placing her hands against the firm plane of his chest as he encircled her waist, drawing her closer.

"How dreadful it must be for you to be burdened with such a brutish oaf for a lover," he quipped, sliding his hands up her back. He trailed his hands into her hair, undoing her braid with deft fingers and spilling her auburn tresses across her shoulders.

"I never said that!" she protested, her hands moving across him of their own accord now, working the fastenings of his leather traveler's armor and dropping it, piece by piece, to the floor. "I only said that perhaps you shouldn't be so quick to rush to judgment – "

Her words disappeared into his throat, muffled by the ravenous kiss he pressed against her lips.

"Oh, do shut up," he growled, his hands roughly jerking her tunic open, exposing her smallclothes beneath, before moving down to her trouser laces. "I don't want to talk about bloody Alistair anymore."

She growled against his mouth, equally chafed and aroused by his coarse demand. "Mind your tone, ser," she chided as she pressed her lips against his throat, placing desperate kisses against his heated skin. "Perhaps you are a brutish oaf after all."

With a growl, he wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her up, and Moira yelped as he carried her forward a few short steps until her back bumped up against the wall.

"I'll show you brutish, woman." Moira wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively even as she opened her mouth to retort, but any witty banter died on her tongue at the look of smoldering desire in his ice blue eyes.

"Come for me," he demanded, as he thrust inside her without prelude. A ragged groan of pleasure tore from Moira's throat as he filled her, and she arched her back against the wall, hungry to move against him and take him in deeper. He moved in her with a forceful, swift purpose, and the feel of his cock inside her, and his hand at the juncture of her thighs, kneading and rolling her sensitive nub, sent waves of pleasure cresting in her with mounting intensity.

"Loghain," she gasped, lifting her leg up higher, feeling the muscles in her thighs straining as she opened herself up wider for him. Their coupling had never been so rough or frantic, and Moira found her climax building with a rapidity that overwhelmed her, her hands clawing for purchase across the broad expanse of his back. She came for him, as he'd commanded, with an exuberant cry as the wave crashed over her at last, rippling through her blood and tingling across her skin. His own climax followed quickly, as he thrust his cock deep into her with a strangled growl, his seed spilling deep into her womb. Boneless, he leaned against the wall, bracing himself with one arm as he grasped her thighs and lowered her back to the floor with the other, sated and breathless.

By mutual accord they untangled themselves, stripping the remainder of their clothes before collapsing into the creaky, uncomfortable bed. Moira turned into Loghain, burying her face against his chest, reveling in the feel and scent of him, still damp with the sweat of their lovemaking. He draped an arm around her shoulders and snuggled her against him, a soft growl of contentment humming from his throat.

"Don't worry about things you can't control, Moira," he murmured, his hand idly stroking a soft pattern against her arm. "You can't solve all the world's problems. Let's just focus on the ones we can." She grunted in reply, her own hand tracing an aimless path through his coarse chest hair. She was entirely too exhausted to continue to argue her point about Alistair, and after feeling Loghain so intimately inside her, she found she no longer wanted to.

It was impossible to stay mad at him, she mused. That boded well for their future marriage. Her brow creased as thoughts of Alistair drifted back to the surface. She might have solved her dispute with Loghain in a very pleasant fashion, but that still left the matter of the Grey Wardens, and the Fereldan refugees, and what – if anything – to do about Alistair.

_Loghain's right_ , she thought, as her mind floated through the ether towards the Fade. _I can't solve every problem. Especially not tonight_. But tomorrow, they would all be waiting for her, and she would have to deal with them.

But not tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Alistair fans: I'm sorry. Really, I am. However, before you flame me, know that this isn't the last we've seen of the wayward Grey Warden...
> 
> Aaaand, more generally, once again I apologize for the too-long wait between chapters. I had a lot going on in life, but also a lot of good old-fashioned writer's block and crises of confidence about my writing. Hopefully, the worst of that has passed, and (HOPEFULLY) this new chapter will be out much sooner. I'd LIKE to get a couple of chapters out before the end of the year, but every time I make any promises, I end up having to eat my words, so we'll see. Feel free to send my muse some vibes, though!
> 
> As always, your support, reviews, bookmarks, and kudos are so very appreciated. Thank you all for continuing to follow this story :)


	23. Sins Revisited

Despite the catharsis of their make-up sex the night before, Moira realized, when she awoke in the morning, that she hadn't entirely put her frustration with Loghain behind her. She'd dressed and retreated from their shared room quickly, unable to explain why her pique had returned so intensely, and felt it better to remove herself from Loghain's presence before she snapped at him. It was not so much that he'd allowed himself to get baited into a fight with Alistair – though that was bad enough – but that he'd ignored her own attempts to calm the situation and make peace to do so. Was he so filled with contempt for Alistair that he could not behave rationally, even when Moira had begged him to do so for her sake? What was it about the younger man that had caused him to abandon his reason so thoroughly? She didn't know, and she knew she couldn't avoid such a conversation for long, but she did not want to deal with a surly, defensive Loghain in the same morning she had to try to convince a reluctant Grey Warden to return to Ferelden. Maker, couldn't anything ever just be simple for once?

When Hawke arrived to escort them to his family's residence in Hightown, Moira concentrated on making small talk with the Fereldan rogue, asking him about his family's experiences in Kirkwall and the circumstances of his sister's recruitment into the Grey Wardens. He was slightly more forthcoming than the night before, and Moira learned that he'd agreed to accompany a dwarven expedition to the Deep Roads as hired muscle, and that, against his better judgment, he'd taken Bethany with him. The expedition had gone terribly wrong, and Bethany had contracted the Blight sickness in a darkspawn attack. Had the expedition not happened to cross paths with a patrol of Grey Wardens, she would have died, but as 'luck' would have it, the Wardens were able to administer the Joining and save Bethany's life – though at a steep price.

"I think Bethany's still angry with me, though whether that's more for taking her along, or letting the Wardens 'save' her, I couldn't say," Hawke confessed to Moira as the party approached his Hightown residence. Moira's eyes goggled as she took in the imposing manse – she hadn't been expecting such opulence.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Hawke said, his tone saturated in bitterness. "Welcome to the grand Amell estate. It was my mother's proper inheritance, or, at least, it was until my uncle squandered it away through gambling and whoring. I thought to set up my family in our old ancestral home, so I took the expedition job with Bartrand Tethras. I hope all these posh furnishings are worth the poison in Bethany's veins. I find it a poor solace myself, but it's better than Gamlen's wretched shack in Lowtown, and beggars can't be choosers, right?"

Moira felt Hawke's pain keenly – it was the exact sort of no-win situation that had forced her own Joining, although at least Bethany truly hadn't had any other options. "I'm sorry," she said. "My own Joining was not my choice, although I was not suffering from the Blight sickness." _At least, not until Duncan forced the poisoned chalice and its tainted blood down my throat_. "You mustn't blame yourself."

"Mustn't I?" Hawke said quietly. He opened the front door and led them into the foyer. "Well, enough of that. Mother won't want her visit ruined by my maudlin guilt. Make yourself at home. It's too early in the day for drinks, but that's never stopped me before. Brandy?"

"Please," Moira affirmed, taking a seat on the plush divan near the fireplace while Hawke went to fetch the drinks. Hawke's mother was not present, and Moira could only guess that she was still in her room. It was probably for the best – between her own lingering irritation at Loghain, and the revelation of the unfortunate circumstances behind Bethany's Joining, Moira was not overly in the mood to wear her Hero of Ferelden mask.

"Hey." She felt Loghain's presence a half-moment before she heard his voice, and he settled himself onto the divan next to her. Despite her annoyance, she found the warmth of his presence comforting, and she pressed her leg against his in wordless greeting. "You've barely spoken a word to me all morning. Are you still angry with me?"

Well, leave it to Loghain to lay everything out baldly and without pretense. With a sigh, Moira turned to him. To her surprise, she saw no surliness in his expression, and the sincerity in his eyes emboldened her. "Honestly? I'm upset you didn't respect my wishes last night. I was dealing with Alistair perfectly well, at least until you decided to barrel in with your bellowing war cry and start a bar brawl over my 'honor.' I can defend my own honor just fine, Loghain."

He huffed an impatient sigh. "You expected me to ignore the vile things he said –"

"Yes! I did!" Moira interrupted, feeling her irritation mounting anew. "That's my entire point! Alistair was lashing out because he's hurt and angry, and you only made things worse when you took his bait! I was handling him just fine – I could have talked him down, made him see reason, but _no_ , there you were, confirming every terrible thing he's ever believed about you!" She exhaled noisily, running her hands through her hair. "Maker, I don't want to fight with you."

He harrumphed softly, a thoughtful scowl creasing his brow. Moira reflected, with a welcome tinge of amusement, that she now knew him so well that she could differentiate the moods of his various scowls. "I don't want to fight either," he said. He placed a hand on her thigh. "My intention was not to disrespect your wishes, Moira. But I confess, I still cannot for the life of me understand your lingering affection for that boy."

"You don't have to understand it," she said wearily, resting her own hand atop his. "But Alistair was my friend, whether you like it or not, and I'm not going to cheer while you humiliate him in front of a tavern full of people." She glanced up to meet his eyes, and was relieved to find only a wry puzzled exasperation in his expression. "Frankly, I can't understand the depth of your animosity for him. I know you abhorred Eamon's schemes to depose Anora, and I can't blame you for that, but you have to know Alistair had no part in that. He never wanted to be king, Loghain, no matter what you or Anora want to believe."

"Maybe he didn't," Loghain grudgingly allowed. "But he still allowed himself to be used by Eamon to undermine my daughter. He was still a living reminder of Maric's infidelity and fecklessness. Maric was a great king, but the man himself had feet of clay." Loghain sighed. "As we all do. But Maker forgive me, I can't look at that lad without seeing what his father's indiscretion did to Rowan."

Moira stared searchingly at her fiancé. "Is that what this is about? You resent Alistair because he's proof that Maric was an imperfect man?"

"No," Loghain said, too quickly. "Of course I knew Maric wasn't perfect. No man is. But he should have been more careful! To have a secret bastard and hide him away with that scheming vulture Eamon and his Orlesian harridan of a wife – what good could come of that?" Loghain scoffed. "Bah. Perhaps you're right. None of this is the boy's fault, after all."

"Am I interrupting?" Hawke said, returning to the room with a carafe of brandy and a handful of glassware. "I do hate intruding on a good domestic squabble."

"Not at all," Moira said briskly. Brandy certainly sounded very good right about now. "We're just coming to an understanding."

"Oh, is this about the Prince of Ferelden incident?" Hawke said lightly, handing her and Loghain each a glass of brandy. "Don't worry, I made sure Isabela got him all tucked into bed." At Moira's scandalized glare, Hawke snorted. "Not like _that_ , Maker's balls! Isabela does have some standards. She's not _that_ shameless."

"Oh, dear, you didn't tell me we were having guests!" An older, refined woman descended the stairs, and Moira and Loghain stood respectfully as she gave Hawke a peck on the cheek. "I'd have worn a nicer dress!"

"I'm quite certain they don't care about your dress, Mother," Hawke said, in a good-natured but exasperated tone. "Mother, this is Lady Moira Cousland and Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, the Grey Wardens who ended the Blight. Wardens, this is my mother, Leandra Hawke."

Leandra stared in awe at Moira and Loghain, and Moira was quite glad she'd had the chance to get a bit of brandy in her to prepare her for a morning of hero worship. "The Heroes of Ferelden? Maker, Galen, why didn't you say – I would have prepared a feast worthy of such esteemed guests!" She returned her attention to Moira and Loghain just in time to avoid her son's rolling eyes. "What an honor you grant us with your presence! Though I cannot imagine what brings you to Kirkwall, of all places. Oh, what splendid timing! My daughter Bethany is coming for a visit today as well – I'm sure she'll be delighted to meet the heroes who ended the Blight!"

"Well, actually, that's why the Wardens are here, Mother," Hawke interrupted, and Moira found herself intensely grateful for the man's willingness to run interference with his exuberant mother. "They are recruiting more Grey Wardens to return to Ferelden, after so many were lost during the Blight. I… suggested that Bethany might want to go home."

"You did?" Leandra's tone was far more crestfallen than pleased. "Well… I suppose she might… but I don't suppose I shall see her as much if she's across the Waking Sea again…"

"Mother," Hawke said, his voice hardening ever so slightly. "Kirkwall is not our home. If Bethany has to be with the Grey Wardens, at least don't begrudge her the chance to be in a familiar place."

"I don't begrudge her anything, dear," Leandra said in a hurt tone. "But you have never given Kirkwall a chance. Neither of you have. Carver is the only one of you who has honestly tried to make this city a home! You could have joined the Templars too – maybe if Bethany had someone on the 'inside' she wouldn't have had to hide."

"You can't be serious." Hawke's expression was stony, and Moira turned to Loghain, with whom she shared an awkward glance. She took a sip of her brandy, trying her best to ignore the Hawke family spat – speaking of intruding on domestic squabbles…

Fortunately, a rap at the door precluded any further responses by mother or son, and with a huff, Hawke went to the foyer to retrieve the new arrivals. When he returned, a pair of Grey Wardens accompanied him – a middle-aged man with a mustache and kind but stern features, and a young, pretty girl with an open, unguarded expression. The girl, to Moira's surprise, had a mage's staff slung across her back.

"Your sister is a mage," Moira said, directing her surprise at Hawke. The rogue merely shrugged.

"Is that a problem?" The girl's voice was quiet but sure, and though her tone held no resentment, Moira could detect an undercurrent of wariness. "I'm a Grey Warden now, serah, not an apostate. If you've come to take me to the Circle –"

"The Circle?" Moira blinked, still piecing the puzzle together. Hawke's sister had been an apostate, clearly, if she'd been free to accompany him to the Deep Roads, and Leandra had said something about Bethany needing to hide. But if she was a Grey Warden now, then she was entirely correct – the Joining precluded all former responsibilities and obligations of the Warden's life, and the Circle held no claim over Warden mages.

"No, I'm not with the Circle," Moira said in what she hoped was an encouraging tone. "I'm Lady Moira Cousland, and this is Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir. We've just come from Ferelden."

"The Heroes of the Blight," Bethany breathed. "Here? Maker!" She hastened into an ungainly bow. "What an honor to meet you!"

Moira was spared the embarrassment of stammering a gracious reaction by Leandra, who bustled forward and enveloped Bethany in a crushing embrace. "My little girl!" she squealed. "How I've missed you!"

Moira and Loghain shared a glance, unwilling to interrupt the Hawke reunion. Their business could wait for a few moments, certainly. Moira's eyes met Loghain's, and he raised his eyebrows in silent agreement. Neither of them noticed the male Warden approaching them until he was at the crook of Moira's elbow.

"Pardon me," he said, and Moira saw Loghain's lip unconsciously curl in the corner of her vision at the man's Orlesian accent. "You claim to be the Heroes of the Fifth Blight? The Wardens who destroyed the Archdemon at Denerim?"

"There's no claiming about it," Loghain said brusquely. "Thousands of witnesses can affirm that Moira slew the Archdemon by her own hand."

"I apologize. I do not mean to question your sincerity," the man said in what seemed like a genuine tone. "It is only that I do not feel your presence in the taint. You know, as Wardens, how that must strike me as odd."

Moira and Loghain shared another glance, this time one of apprehension. She had – in what now seemed an obvious and short-sighted misapprehension – not foreseen that her lack of taint would become an issue. But of course any true Warden would notice at once that she and Loghain no longer bore the taint – and they had not bothered to come up with a plausible reason to explain why.

Leliana's warning echoed again in Moira's memory. _You must not trust the Grey Wardens_. Which ones? All of them? She knew she had to tell this Warden something, give him some reason she was no longer tainted – but she was mindful of keeping the ashes secret.

"No, we no longer carry the taint," Moira said. "I can't explain it. Perhaps it had something to do with battling the Archdemon. That is, in truth, part of the reason we are recruiting more Wardens for Ferelden. Without the taint, we are no longer effective at fighting the darkspawn."

The man regarded her with an apprising look. "I see," he said. "Well, I have certainly never heard of a Warden losing the taint before, but in truth, much Warden lore has been lost over the centuries, and it has been many lifetimes since the last Blight, so who am I to say what is possible?" The man reached a hand out to Moira in greeting, and she took it. "I am Jean-Marc Stroud, late of Ghislain. It is an honor to meet the Heroes of the Blight." He turned his glance to Loghain. "Yes, I can see that you are indeed Teyrn Loghain. You are quite infamous in Orlais. Perhaps if you had not closed the border, the Blight would have ended sooner."

Loghain glared at the Orlesian Warden with steel in his eyes. "And perhaps if your empress had not been waiting on the other side with ten legions of chevaliers, I would not have closed the border," he grated. "But I found the choice between succumbing to the Blight and becoming slaves to Orlais yet again to be a poor one indeed."

Stroud shook his head. "I do not believe Empress Celene sought to retake Ferelden, Teyrn," he said. "But then again, I have been in the Free Marches for decades, and am no longer privy to the Game, so who can say what machinations are at play in the Imperial Court? Regardless, I am told you served the Grey Wardens faithfully in penance, and you helped Lady Cousland end the Blight. Whatever I may think of your politics, you have my respect as a Grey Warden." He bowed his head respectfully, and Moira stifled a laugh at Loghain's expression, a rather unique blend of utter shock and righteous anger.

"You'll forgive my fiancé," she said to Stroud, casting a pointed look at Loghain. "He fought valiantly to free Ferelden from your chevaliers, and has little trust in Orlais as a result." Moira wondered if that was the most dramatic understatement she would ever utter in her life, as Loghain shot an incensed glare at her.

"They are not my chevaliers," Stroud said, and if he was angered by Loghain's blatant animosity, he did not show it. "This is why I remain in the Marches. As a Warden, my duties are apolitical. And if there is any assistance I can offer in helping to rebuild the Fereldan Wardens, please, only ask."

Moira found herself liking this Stroud character, though she still felt the tension radiating from Loghain in nearly palpable waves. "In truth, we were hoping to recruit your companion, Bethany," she said. "The Hawkes are natives to Ferelden, and given the sensitive political situation in our country, it would be best if we can rebuild the Order in Ferelden with local recruits, at least at first."

Stroud scratched at his mustache, giving her a thoughtful look. "I do not see any real issues with reassigning Warden Bethany," he said. "Though she is young, and still quite inexperienced. I would not set her in charge of the Order, certainly, not yet."

Another thought of Alistair flitted unbidden through Moira's mind, though she dismissed it for now – Alistair was an entirely separate issue, and one she would have to figure out how to deal with on her own, later. "That seems reasonable," she said. "We have contracted for several ships to return to Ferelden with many of the Blight refugees. It would be for the best if Bethany could return with us as soon as possible." She lowered her voice. "We are still fighting off incursions of darkspawn, along the Amaranthine coast. Warden assistance is urgently needed. I'm sure you understand."

Stroud raised his eyebrows at the news. "The darkspawn have not retreated to the Deep Roads after the death of the Archdemon? That is odd and disheartening news indeed." He frowned. "I will be happy to release Bethany to return to Ferelden, Warden Cousland. However… I must confess that I require her assistance here for at least a little while longer. Perhaps, if you are amenable, I might have yours as well. I am in the middle of a very sensitive investigation, and Bethany is the only Warden my contact will deal with."

Moira and Loghain shared a puzzled glance. "What sort of sensitive investigation?" Loghain said, his curiosity overcoming his animosity for all things Orlesian.

"A slave ring," Bethany chimed in. Moira saw that the Hawkes had returned to the periphery of the conversation. "I promised Fenris I'd look into it for him." She looked at Moira. "Galen tells me that you want to take me back to Ferelden, to be a Grey Warden there. I would be love to, but I have to do this first. I hope you understand."

Loghain frowned, and Moira detected a troubled air to his expression that was likely too subtle to be noticed by any of the others. "A slave ring? From Tevinter? What particular interest do the Wardens have in Tevinter slavers?"

"That's just the thing," Stroud said. "While slavery is a grave sin in the Maker's eyes, it is not ordinarily the duty of Grey Wardens to track down and eliminate its practice. We are normally constrained solely to matters of the Blight, and do not involve ourselves in politics or enforcing the laws of the Chantry or of nations. But Bethany's friend – a peculiar fellow, if I may say so – brought us evidence of a slaver operation that he does not believe is connected to Tevinter. He suspects Grey Warden involvement, and if that is true, it is terrible news indeed."

Moira felt an icy fist grip her innards. "A Grey Warden slave operation? Why? What possible use could the Grey Wardens have for slaves?"

"I do not know," Stroud said, his face grim. "And it troubles me greatly, if it is true. I have certainly never heard of any Grey Warden involvement with slavery before, and such things have always been roundly condemned by any Wardens I have ever served with. However, there are always zealots… those who believe our mandate to fight the Blight enables us to cast aside any laws or conventions that would stand in our way. While I hate to imagine any of my fellows sinking to such depths, I am compelled to admit that it is possible that some Wardens have taken such extreme measures out of what they see as necessity."

Moira's thoughts at once flashed back to her encounter with a rogue Warden named Avernus whom she'd encountered at an abandoned Grey Warden keep near Amaranthine called Soldier's Peak. The keep had been lost for centuries, purged from written Ferelden history after the Wardens there had been involved in a long-ago plot to overthrow the king, and Moira had gone to investigate rumors of what had truly happened. There she'd found Avernus, a man who by all rights should have been long dead, a Warden blood mage who had conducted all manner of atrocious experiments designed to extend his lifespan and empower the Warden's blood taint by using demonic energies. Appalled, she'd slain the rogue Warden, and the encounter had only reinforced her suspicion of the lengths to which so many Grey Wardens were prepared to go in their belief that the ends justified the means. If there was another Avernus out there, who knew what vile purpose he – or they – had gotten up to?

"You're certain the Wardens are involved?" Loghain asked.

"Not yet," Bethany said. "But Fenris found some evidence that he thinks might point to Warden involvement. It's probably best to let him explain it."

"Who is this Fenris?" Moira said, looking from Bethany to Hawke.

Hawke sighed. "A very zealous former Tevinter slave turned hunter of slavers," he said. "He's… not the most cheerful fellow, but then again, I don't think I'd probably be all smiles if I'd been some twisted magister's plaything."

Moira shuddered. She'd heard the stories of Tevinter magisters, and she'd seen the evils of their blood magic and slavery first-hand in the Denerim Alienage. She cast an involuntary glance at Loghain, whose face was taut with emotion. She had no doubt that he was thinking of the Denerim Alienage as well.

"Fenris tracked the slavers to a cave on the Wounded Coast," Bethany said. "We were going to investigate it today, as soon as he arrives at the manse. If you'd care to accompany us, we'd be grateful."

"I will go," Loghain said at once, to Moira's surprise. "There's a chance these slaves might be displaced Fereldans. If so, I will ensure that they are freed and brought home with us." Moira did not look at Loghain, not wanting to draw attention to him, but she wondered if any news of his involvement with the Tevinter magisters had ever found its way out of Denerim. Perhaps she alone knew that Loghain had his own personal reasons to search for disappeared slaves.

Bethany looked at Loghain approvingly. "You're taking some of the Fereldan refugees back? That's wonderful!" She turned to Hawke. "You'll come too, won't you?"

"Of course I'll come, Beth." Hawke looked at his sister fondly. "A chance to see the Heroes of Ferelden in action doesn't present itself every day."

Moira spared a glance at her fiancé, and she saw in his face a steely resolve. She knew him now well enough to know that he likely saw this quest as a chance to expiate at least some of his sins. She wondered if any of the missing slaves were the elves who had been stolen from the Alienage. If so, would they recognize Loghain – and if that happened, what would he do? What would Hawke, or Bethany, or Stroud, or Fenris, do?

She felt, for the first time in their relationship, something of what he must have felt the night before, when he'd charged at Alistair in defense of her honor. She did not defend or justify what he'd done to the elves of the Alienage – far from it – but she knew that his guilt weighed heavily on him, even if he did not often vocalize it. He would be determined now to do what he could to save these few, to atone for the many he had lost during the Blight. And if the others found out, if they judged him harshly – as he, in truth, deserved, she admitted – then perhaps she should be there too, to explain the madness that had overtaken him.

Her eyes met Loghain's, and she saw, to her surprise, a faint shake of his head. They could not speak openly, not in front of all the others, but she could read his expressions so well now – and in his eyes, she saw that he did not want to put the burden of atoning for his sins onto her. This was something he felt that he needed to do without her to explain or mitigate his guilt. It was his quest of penance, and she found that she understood, and respected him all the more for it.

Her thoughts also turned, once again, to Alistair. Stroud was right – they'd need more than young Bethany Hawke to solve the problem of the darkspawn in Amaranthine. Despite the fracas of the night before, she still wanted to reach out to Alistair, to repair their once-fast friendship that had been so damaged by war and betrayal – and she knew she wouldn't get anywhere with him as long as Loghain was with her. Perhaps this was her opportunity, then – while Loghain accompanied Hawke and the Wardens to the coast to investigate the slave ring, she would go and track down Alistair, and try to put things right between them.

"I'm afraid I won't be joining you," she said. She saw in his eyes that Loghain immediately understood. "I really ought to continue to recruit across the city for more Wardens, and I promised I'd seek out the Blight refugees to offer them passage home."

"Oh, well – I suppose that's fair," Bethany said, though Moira clearly heard the disappointment in her voice. A knock at the door echoed through the parlor, and Moira surmised that Hawke's mysterious friend Fenris must be calling.

Her suspicions were confirmed when Hawke returned from the foyer with the strangest looking elf Moira had ever seen. His features were quite handsome, but his hair was shock-white, and Moira noticed oddly-glowing marks on his hands and arms, almost like tattoos. Was this some kind of conscious style choice, or was there some other story behind the man's odd appearance? She wondered if she'd ever find out.

"I see you have company," Fenris said, his voice low and droll.

"That's right," Hawke said. "Fenris, this is Lady Moira Cousland and Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, the heroes of the Blight."

"Truly?" The elf arched an eyebrow. "You have interesting friends, Hawke."

"You should know," Hawke quipped. "Loghain will be accompanying us to the Wounded Coast. He's going to help us track down the slave ring."

"Are you? Good," Fenris said. "It's not often I meet nobles who spare much concern for the misfortunes that befall their lessers." Fenris fixed Loghain with an intense look of scrutiny, which Loghain returned unflinchingly. "I am glad to see you are one who does."

"I owe a responsibility to aid my people in any way I can," Loghain said. "If these people are Fereldan citizens, I will see them safely home. If they are not, then they will at least know freedom."

"If we are not too late," Fenris said ominously. "We should not tarry long here."

"I agree," Stroud said. "If we are ready, then?"

"You should seek out Anders," Hawke said to Moira. "He helps a lot of the Ferelden refugees out of his clinic in Lowtown."

Fenris glowered at Hawke. "He's an apostate mage," he said darkly. "I doubt the people need the kind of 'help' he offers."

Bethany looked over at Fenris, wounded. "I was an apostate mage, Fenris," she said. "We're not all bad."

Fenris's glare softened somewhat. "You are not," he agreed. "But most mages are not like you."

"Allrighty, then!" Hawke said loudly, clapping his hands. "Maker knows we'll be here all day if we get into this mage debate nonsense again, so why don't we spare the poor Wardens' ears and go hunt some slavers?"

Moira turned to Loghain, slipping her arms around him. It would be the first time since she'd awoken from her coma that either of them would be heading into danger without the other, and though she knew Loghain was certainly more than capable of defending himself, the thought of not being at his side was still painful.

"Take care," she murmured into his neck as he wrapped his arms around her. Loghain placed a soft kiss against her forehead, giving her a soft smile as he pulled back.

"Are you certain you don't want me to come?" she said, too quietly for the others to hear.

"I need to do this on my own," he replied, resting his forehead against hers. "It is my penance. Not yours. Never yours."

Taking his hands in hers, she gave him a squeeze, then stepped back. He would be in good company, at least, with Hawke, Bethany, Stroud, and Fenris. He would be fine, and she would find Alistair and make things right, and gather up the refugees, and then they could finally head home. It was a sweet thought, and Moira clung to it as a strange and inexplicable sense of foreboding descended over her as she waved goodbye to him, before he disappeared through the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? I updated twice in a month? MADNESS. Enjoy it while it lasts, folks!
> 
> As a quick note: merging the DA2 timeline with DAO was a bit tricky, since Bioware didn't exactly bother to make them align that well. But in this universe, since Moira and Loghain were never Wardens in Amaranthine recruiting the folks who get recruited during Awakening, Anders was never a Grey Warden. I decided to handwave that Hawke and Co. find Stroud in the Deep Roads on their own, and save Bethany that way. Also, Carver is alive because I didn't need to kill him for gameplay purposes, so there. 
> 
> As always, thank you for all the support :)


	24. Bonds Broken and Reforged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow... please forgive the enormous delay for this chapter. I had a lot of actual real-life stuff keeping me busy, but if I'm being honest, I also went through a pretty long bout of intense writer's block flavored by anxiety that made even the thought of writing intimidating and painful. In all honesty, this chapter is not as long as I'd intended it to be, but in the interest of actually publishing something and getting back in the game, I'm just going to put it up as-is. I am hoping that finally publishing something for the first time since October will be the boot in my butt that I need to get back on track. As hollow as such assurances are, I CAN assure you that I do not intend to abandon this story, even if it takes me years to finish it - but that said, I'm at least fairly optimistic that I won't let another update linger for so many months. I hope I handled this chapter well, and I hope those of you still interested in this story enjoy! As always, your feedback is priceless to me, and I appreciate every review, favorite, and kudo. Thank you for sticking with me and with this story, and I hope you continue to stick around! Thank you all <3
> 
> ETA: I feel like a pretty big asshole for not including this in my first note, but this chapter would have been even longer in coming - if at all - without the relentless encouragement, support, and love of two of my very dear friends, bushviper and betagyre. You guys are amazing - seriously.

Moira's nose wrinkled as she stepped into the Hanged Man, the pungency of stale beer, sweat, and vomit assailing her senses far more dramatically than before after her brief interlude in well-heeled Hightown. She couldn't fathom why anyone would want to spend any of their sober waking hours here, but then again, she gathered that most of the tavern's patrons were in a healthy state of partial intoxication at all times. Except, of course, for her contact, who amazingly seemed to enjoy the Hanged Man's 'pleasures' at any time of day.

Isabela, already comfortably ensconced at the bar, waved cheerily to Moira as the younger woman closed the door behind her. "There you are, milady," she drawled with exaggerated affectation. "Hawke told me to expect you."

"I assume Hawke told you why I'm here?" Moira sidled up to the bar and, at Isabela's prompting, took a seat next to the pirate. Before she could react, Isabela waved over the barman, who produced a glass of amber liquid and set it before Moira.

"Oh, thank you, but I'm not really in the mood this early," Moira said, eyeing the suspicious liquid with a skeptical eye. Isabela snorted and, with a smile that was somehow both wry and seductive, extended a finger and pushed the glass ever so slightly closer to Moira.

"That's why you're no fun. A good dram of whiskey solves all of life's problems, Lady Cousland. And besides, you're going to need some liquid courage if you want to patch things up with your drunken friend." At Moira's glance, Isabela grimaced. "Yes, Hawke told me about Alistair. I'm sorry I made such sport of him the other night. I didn't know you were friends. We always just assumed he was an addled drunkard who had grand delusions about being a Grey Warden. We didn't really think he'd actually been one during the Blight."

"It's all right. A lot happened during the Blight, but Alistair was a good Warden, once. I'm hoping he can be one again." Moira picked up the glass of whiskey and took a tentative sip. A sour, spicy flavor that Moira imagined was akin to turpentine coated her tongue, and she felt the muscles of her face seize into a pained rictus as she forced herself to swallow the vile concoction.

"Gah, this is _wretched_ ," she gasped, staring wide-eyed at the glass as Isabela made no attempt to disguise her laughter. "How do you _drink_ this swill?"

"Very carefully, love," Isabela replied with a wink, downing her own glass in one slug. "Anyway, I made sure Alistair made it safely to bed after your dramatic fracas – and _no_ , I did _not_ seduce him – but when I went to check on him this morning, he was gone. Fortunately for you, I'm resourceful, and I have a lot of friends around town."

"Friends?" Moira raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Well… friends of a sort? Anyway, I asked around about your Alistair, and someone saw him stumbling into the Blooming Rose earlier this morning."

"The Blooming Rose?" Moira prompted, a queasy feeling beginning to stir in her gut. Another tavern? This conversation was going to be that much harder if she had to try to reason with an Alistair deep in his cups…

"Oh, that's right, you're not local. The Blooming Rose is Hightown's 'house of ill repute,' as it were. And far be it for me to judge anyone getting their jollies, but… " Isabela shrugged. "Only if that's what they really want, you know? And I'm not so sure your friend really wants to get his prick wet as much as he wants to forget the hornet's nest of bad memories you and your fellow Warden stirred up."

Moira heaved a sigh, pushing the glass of cheap whiskey away. She'd lost all taste for it – not that she'd had much to begin with.

"Thanks, Isabela. I guess I'm headed back to Hightown. Oh, and do me a favor, will you," she said, sliding off the barstool. "If you could keep your 'friends' from spreading the rumor that the Hero of Ferelden was seen sauntering into the town brothel without her fiancé, I'd be quite appreciative."

"Hmm," Isabela trilled, an avaricious gleam in her eye. "Exactly how appreciative are we talking here, my dear?"

"Oh, for the – are you extorting me?"

" _I'm_ not extorting you," Isabela replied smoothly. "But my 'friends' will certainly expect me to bribe _them_ in return for their silence, so… maybe you could consider this a middleman's fee?"

Moira uttered a disgusted noise that came out halfway between a growl and a scoff, but nevertheless slipped a few sovereigns from her purse and slid them across the bar to the pirate, who snatched them up with an smile.

"Cheers, love," Isabela chirped. "It'll be as though you were never there."

"Thank the Maker," Moira groused. "And… thanks, Isabela."

"Until next time, Lady Cousland." With a parting wink, Isabela returned her attentions to the bar, and Moira slipped out of the Hanged Man and back into the streets of Kirkwall.

So. To convince Alistair to return to Ferelden, she had to track him down in a brothel, where he was perhaps already drunk, and possibly extricate him from the clutches of a Kirkwall harlot – which would probably mean another bribe, to compensate the lady for her lost wages – and convince Alistair to let bygones be bygones and return to the country from which he'd been banished with the man he hated more than anyone else in Thedas.

Moira was beginning to miss the darkspawn.

* * *

At least the Blooming Rose was slightly less seedy than the Pearl – Moira supposed she had to give it that much. In a way, though, that almost made it worse. Moira had no sooner stepped in the door than her eyes were drawn immediately to the unpleasant sight of a corpulent man in expensive but ill-fitting clothes pawing desperately at an obviously bored young elven woman, who quickly and dispassionately removed his hand from her breast.

"I told you already, fifty silver only gets you a sit and snog. You want to touch my titties, cough up the sovereign."

Moira didn't stay long enough to listen to the man's sputter of faux outrage, suppressing a disgusted noise as she approached a woman who looked like the madam.

"Excuse me –"

"Right," the madam briskly interrupted. "You look like you can actually afford the Rose, so go ahead and pay up with me first. The boys – or girls, if you prefer – are all out in the lounge. You're free to choose anyone who isn't already with a customer. If you're feeling bold, we also offer a deluxe service for two sovereigns."

"Er, I'm not interested in your 'services,'" Moira said, feeling her face redden. "I'm actually here looking for someone. I was hoping you could help."

The madam gave her a flat glare that landed somewhere between boredom and hostility. "Milady, I've never seen you before, so I'll only say this once. We provide discreet and pleasant companionship for those who can afford to pay. Emphasis on _discreet_. We aren't in the gossipmonger business, and we _certainly_ aren't in the business of betraying our clients' trust. If you're looking for your wayward man, you can look elsewhere. I'd go broke in three nights flat if I tattled to every jilted housewife in Hightown."

Moira closed her eyes and suppressed a sigh of irritation. "You misunderstand me. I'm not a jilted lover, and I really don't care who does what here with whom. But I have a friend in trouble, and I think he may have come here. Please."

The madam's glare only just softened. "Listen, you wouldn't be the first woman to come here with a clever sob story. Like I said –"

Moira gritted her teeth. This was going nowhere. Maker above, this was going to end up costing her more than hiring a ship for the refugees. "You said the 'deluxe service' was two sovereigns? Well here," she dipped her hand into her coin purse, "how about three? I require a very special deluxe service, you see. There is a man here – Fereldan, reddish-blonde hair, young and fit. He's probably drunk and he might have been crying. He probably had no idea how to hire a whore, so you took his sovereigns and steered him towards one of your more patient girls. I need to talk to that man, now."

The madam stared at the three sovereigns in her hand for a moment, a thoughtful expression on her face – but then she snapped her palm shut and slipped the coins into her own purse. "As it happens, I did see such a man this morning," she said cagily. "Poor bastard was already drunk. He asked for a 'sweet girl.'" She snorted. "I told him he came to the wrong place for 'sweet girls,' but he didn't seem fit to wander off anywhere else, so I sent him to Elise. She's good with the young dumb ones." The madam jerked her thumb towards the upstairs rooms. "Elise's room is third on the left. Door'll be locked. Talk to your lad, but if you do anything to Elise, three sovereigns is just the beginning of what you'll owe me."

"I don't intend to 'do anything' to either of them. But thank you." Retreating from the madam, Moira grimaced as she made her way up the stairs, past the debauchery taking place in the downstairs lounge. A distant memory, shaded with guilt, snaked its way into her mind – the Wardens' campfire, somewhere in the Hinterlands, after a day of fighting darkspawn. Alistair awkwardly asking if he could sit near her, and proceeding to tell her, with fumbling starts and pauses, that he found her so lovely and so kind. Moira, with a familiar crush of anxiety and fear, explaining to him that her love for him was only the love she felt for a brother, not a lover. He'd handled it well, played it off as a joke, but then when she'd chosen Loghain over him –

 _No_. _I didn't 'choose Loghain_ _over him.' I never asked Alistair to leave._ The memory of Alistair at the Landsmeet, bitter and angry, soured her wistful memories of his gentle campfire confession.

Before she could continue her line of thought, she arrived in front of Elise's door. Sighing, she rapped briskly on the door. Predictably, an annoyed female voice responded.

"I'm working – find someone else!"

"Your madam sent me up here," Moira replied. "I need to talk to Alistair. Please. I've already paid for my time."

She heard nothing but silence, stretching out for what seemed like several minutes, and she'd resolved to knock again when the door creaked open and a very irritated young woman glared out from the other side. She was, Moira was bizarrely thankful to note, fully clothed.

"The madam sent you up here because you paid her?" Elise said, her voice full of suspicion. "That's not the Rose policy – look, if you're his girl, that ain't my problem –"

"Relax. I'm not 'his girl.' I'm just a friend. And just in case the madam doesn't share the wealth," With a grimace, Moira pulled another sovereign out of her purse and gave it to the girl. "For your discretion, and some privacy. Take the hour off. Go get some fresh air."

The girl looked at the coin in her hand, then shrugged. "If you please. Between you and me, he doesn't really want to be here anyway. I kept asking if he was ready, and he kept just wanting to talk. He just seems… lonely. Poor blighter."

Moira sighed, her irritation from earlier melting away. "I'll take care of him. Thank you, Elise."

Moira stepped past Elise as the girl left, and entered the room hesitantly. Alistair was there, sitting on the edge of the bed, also fully clothed, his head in his hands. She stood there awkwardly for several moments, formulating and discarding at least six different overtures – now that she was finally alone with him, she found that she had no idea what to say, how to begin to bridge the gulf between them.

Alistair's voice, when it came, was bitter and brittle.

"Come to have a laugh? At the… what was it Loghain called me? The man who would be king? The great Prince Alistair Theirin, heir of Calenhad, wallowing in his own misery at a whorehouse?"

"You know that isn't how I feel," Moira said, her words soft with sympathy.

"Do I? I've come to realize I don't know much about you at all. Maybe I never did." He lifted his head from his hands, and in his expression Moira saw neither belligerence nor self-pity. His eyes were steeled with a calm resignation, which Moira found somehow far more tragic.

"That's not fair, Alistair. I never lied to you or deceived you, not once. I'm no different now than I was before the Landsmeet."

"So all the sympathy you offered me, when I confided in you – trusted in you – what was that, then? Or did you just forget about all that when you saw a chance to get the 'greatest general in Fereldan history' on your side? It's not the first time I've been thrown away like trash – you'd think I'd be more used to it by now. For some fool reason, I actually thought you cared."

Moira's anger surged at Alistair's cutting sarcasm, even as a small, rational part of her knew that he was deploying the only self-defense mechanism he knew how to wield. "I _did_ care! I cared so much that I listened to you night after night, whinging _on_ and _on_ and _on_ about Maker-forsaken _Duncan_ – the man who watched my family get butchered, who dragged me away from my bloody, dying father! Did you ever bother to ask about them, by the way? Did you ever bother to care about my dead parents, my lost brother, my family's lands being plundered by Rendon Howe? Don't answer that."

"I didn't –" Moira's anger had shocked Alistair out of his complacency. "You have to know I cared, Moira!"

"Do I?" She threw his own words from before back at him. "Because I sure don't remember any concern for _my_ dead family – all I remember is being told to chin up, be a good Warden, focus on the mission. Forget about my brother's wife and son, lying in a pool of their own blood in their bedchamber. Do you know how old my nephew was, Alistair? He was five. Five years old, and Howe's men cut him down like a lamb at slaughter. He was _five_." She was raging now, unstoppable, and in her pain she neither noticed nor cared about Alistair's increasingly horrified expression. "And my brother? He's alive, by the way, no thanks to you. Howe set an ambush for him and his men, but he survived and made it to the Korcari Wilds and spent the rest of the war recovering from his wounds. But I didn't know that, not after Ostagar. I had no idea where he was, or if he'd lived, but I do remember you telling me we had no time to look for him. No time! We had time to find your bloody ungrateful bint of a sister, but no time to find the rightful Teyrn of Highever! But yes, Alistair, please, tell me how much you bloody cared about my family." She was weeping now, but she could no more stop the torrent of words than a broken dam could hold back a raging river.

"They were my _family_ , Alistair! My real, honest-to-Maker _family_ , but I couldn't even take the time to mourn them because being a Grey Warden was just too bloody important to worry about a few dead nobles caught up in a bicker over land and titles, wasn't it? And you know what? You were right. Being a Grey Warden, stopping the Blight – it was the most important thing for us all. Pity you forgot that when you threw a tantrum because I failed to weep sufficiently for your dead surrogate father who you'd known all of six months. Maker, you're right, what a monster I've been."

"Moira –" Alistair's voice was shaky, broken, but she wasn't finished yet.

"So no, I don't 'know that you cared.' You know what I do know, Alistair? I know that not a week after losing my family, Duncan made me a monster, and the only man – the _only_ one – who could have understood how that felt, who could have guided me through it and reassured me, completely abdicated his authority. I needed _you_ , Alistair, don't you understand that? But you were too great a coward, and now you dare to judge me for the decisions I made in your stead? How fucking dare you."

Finished at last, she stared at him, breathing heavily, the righteous outrage evaporating from her like steam from a kettle that has boiled off. Slowly, as she came down from her towering rage, regret seeped in to fill the hollow where her fury had vacated. She closed her eyes, cursing herself. _Damn it._ She'd come here to convince Alistair to join her, not to heap further scorn on him; but even as she felt remorse, she also felt a weight lift from her chest – the festering wound at the core of her broken relationship with Alistair had finally been lanced, and she felt all her lingering animosity seeping away, the infection drained from the lesion.

"Alistair, I'm sorry –" she began.

"Look, I was scared!" Alistair said, his eyes pricking with unshed tears. "Maker damn you, Moira, I'm sorry! You're right… I'm sorry I didn't ask you more about your family while I made you listen to me reminiscing about Duncan. I'm sorry I put my own pain above yours. I'd be sorry I let you take command, but I think we both know I made the right decision, don't we?" He stared at her in wistful sorrow. "I told you – I'm not a leader! I never have been! But you – Maker's breath, look at you!" He gestured wildly at her. "You were _born_ to lead – I knew that the minute I saw you. You were everything I wasn't – confident, assured, brave. I'm a bastard and a disgrace, and there's not one minute of my life I was allowed to forget it. Maybe… maybe I did idolize Duncan too much, but he was the first man who _ever_ treated me like I had something to offer. Maybe he was just using me too, like everyone else, but at least he was better at faking it than Eamon and the Chantry." Defeated, Alistair slumped back to the bed, the fight drained from him.

"You're right. I'm pathetic, and I'm exactly where I deserve to be. Just go. Leave me alone to the fate I've earned."

Moira's heart broke, and before she knew what she was doing, she was on the bed next to Alistair, wrapping her arms around him.

"Hey. That's not why I'm here," she said. "I'm here because you _are_ my friend. I never stopped caring about you, Alistair, not once, not even after you left. I was angry at you… still am, I suppose," she said, allowing herself a soft rueful chuckle. "But I never stopped caring. Not even after I became… closer… with Loghain." She felt him stiffen at the mention of Loghain, but the teyrn – and her relationship with him – would need to be addressed eventually. "The truth is, you were a good Grey Warden. It's not your fault you weren't ready to lead." _Of course, neither was I, but what's past is past._

"Isn't it?" Alistair repeated dully. "It's what Duncan would have wanted. I let him down, just like I let everyone else down. Just like I let you down."

Even the hypothetical thought of Duncan daring to judge Alistair sent a surge of anger through Moira. "Duncan let _you_ down," she said fiercely. "His foolish pride got him and all the other Wardens killed. Ostagar was a lost cause from the beginning, Alistair. I know that now, and Duncan had to have known it too – but his obsession with 'Grey Warden secrets' got everyone killed."

Alistair cast a glance askance at Moira. "Seems a little convenient to omit your darling Loghain's complicity, doesn't it? You know, his 'master plan' that was supposed to win the battle."

Moira sighed – she really didn't want to debate the merits of Ostagar with Alistair, not when they at last seemed to have achieved the tentative beginnings of a peace. "Loghain made a tactical decision to retreat when the battle was going badly," she said. "Alistair… did Duncan ever tell you why Wardens were needed to defeat a Blight?"

Alistair frowned at her, confused by the seeming change of subject. "Well, our connection to the darkspawn obviously gives us a clear advantage – "

"That's what I thought, too." So it was true, then – Duncan had never explained the truth to Alistair, either. A newfound anger towards the dead Warden-Commander blossomed within her. _So much for being a trustworthy father figure. He had no intention of telling Alistair about the 'sacrifice' until it was too late._ She explained to Alistair the dreadful truth that Riordan had imparted upon her and Loghain in Redcliffe, and when she was finished, she was surprised to note that Alistair didn't seem overly upset.

"I guess I always figured it had to be something like that," he said quietly. "Otherwise, any talented warrior could destroy the Archdemon – if it were just a dragon, that is." He sighed. "So Ostagar was just a diversion without the Archdemon, after all. What a pointless waste of life." Despite his words, Alistair's tone was measured and even. "Riordan took the final blow, then?"

This was the part of the conversation Moira had dreaded the most. Moira hadn't told Stroud the truth – though he seemed a decent man, she knew that the truth about the Sacred Ashes was a precious commodity. But Alistair had already seen the ashes, and knew of their power – and besides, she owed him at least the chance to make the same decision that Loghain had made. If he did, of course, she was back to the start in her search for a Warden-Commander for Ferelden, but Alistair deserved to know the truth. And so she told him of what had happened when she killed the Archdemon, how she had been lost within a prison of her own mind, with nothing but a fragment of the Old God's soul for 'company,' and how Leliana had led Loghain back to the Temple of the Sacred Ashes. She told him how the ashes had awoken her, had purged the Archdemon from its prison in her soul, and had also cured her of the taint. When she was finished, she saw Alistair regarding her with an expression of awe.

"The ashes can cure the taint?" he said. "So… the Wardens could be freed?"

"We… haven't told anyone else," she said. "Leliana has taken the ashes somewhere safe. You know as well as I do that Andraste's ashes – the most sacred relic in Chantry history, harboring miraculously curative properties – would be fought over by every power in Thedas. They can't be revealed, Alistair. But… if you wished to rid yourself of the taint, I am sure Leliana would be willing to take you to them."

Alistair's expression was unreadable. "A cure for the Calling. So many Wardens have talked about it, but, to know it's real..." He sat back on the bed, brows furrowed in thought. "You know, it just occurred to me that I didn't feel you or Loghain in the taint. I guess I was so deep in drink that it never occurred to me to wonder why."

"If you want the ashes, Alistair, all you have to do is say the word. I'll contact Leliana."

Alistair looked at her thoughtfully. "It's not just a cure for the Calling, though, is it? It cures the taint itself. Once you take the ashes, you're not a Grey Warden anymore. Are you?"

"No. I'm not. Neither is Loghain," Moira admitted.

"Then I don't want it," Alistair said decisively. "It's… Maker, it's bad enough I abandoned you during the Blight. You thought killing the Archdemon would destroy your own soul, and yet you struck the final blow anyway." He looked to Moira, and for the first time, she saw true remorse in his eyes. "So… I left you alone to face that fate. I truly am sorry, Moira. I was so proud to serve as a Grey Warden, and yet I turned my back on everything the Order stands for. I don't think there's any way I can ever atone for that."

"That's not true," she said quietly. "Wardens are needed in Ferelden still. The Blight may be over, but pockets of darkspawn remain, and… the Order needs a leader. You know how delicate the political situation is, Alistair." She regretted that particular choice of words as soon as she spoke them, seeing his brows furrow into a scowl of resentment.

"I'm banished, remember?" he said bitterly. "Even if I wanted to come back to Ferelden – and I'm not saying I do, after what happened at the Landsmeet – why should I expect a warm welcome? Queen Anora would probably prefer an Orlesian Warden-Commander to me. At least an Orlesian isn't going to openly foment rebellion, in her eyes."

"You're wrong about Anora," Moira said. "She'll listen to reason – and more importantly, she'll listen to me and to her father."

"Oh, Loghain wants to be pals now, too?" Alistair snorted. "Fat bloody chance."

"I'm not sure 'pals' is the right word, but he agrees that you're the best choice to lead up the Wardens in Ferelden," she said, and was confident that she was only mildly exaggerating.

"Well, I'm so relieved to have his vote of confidence. It completely makes up for all the months he spent trying to have us killed in increasingly inventive ways." Despite the derision he was heaping upon her fiancé, Moira was almost relieved to hear Alistair's sarcastic asides – it was the most he'd sounded like himself since the Landsmeet.

"Please, Alistair," she said, taking his hands in hers. "Think of this as a fresh start. Come back with us – rebuild the Order in Ferelden, but do it _your_ way. No more secrets, no more lies. The Grey Wardens can be a force for good, and I know you're the right person to remake the Order into a beacon of hope."

Alistair snorted. "Wow. Hell of a speech. How long have you been practicing that one for all your adoring and eager recruits?"

"Only since this morning. It was nice, wasn't it?" She smirked. Maker, it felt _good_ to banter with Alistair. She knew it would never feel like 'old times' again, but this felt like a new beginning, which was almost better.

"Could use a bit more pizzazz," he said drolly. "Don't forget the action and adventure, with a dash of mortal peril thrown in for spice."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said, rising from the bed at last. "Besides, I already got you one recruit. I'm doing more than my fair share."

"Oh?"

"A young mage – her name's Bethany. Her family's from Ferelden, but they fled to Kirkwall during the Blight. She was infected with the Blight sickness, and her brother found a Grey Warden to perform the Joining on her. She's a sweet girl, Alistair – you'll like her."

Alistair pulled a face. "You sound like the village grandmother trying to set me up with her homely spinster granddaughter."

Moira punched him in the arm. "Stop it! Bethany is neither homely nor a spinster. And I'm not setting you up with anyone! I'm just saying, she's young and she was just Joined. She needs someone to look up to, someone who can give her advice on being a Warden and help her get used to her new life. I think you can be that someone."

"Yes, yes, I get it. One gentle but wise mentor, coming right up. I suppose we might as well get on with it, then." Alistair shrugged, and looked around his surroundings as if for the first time. "Oh, we've been in a brothel chamber for quite some time, haven't we? I hope Loghain isn't the jealous sort – I'm sure the Hightown gossipmongers are all a-titter."

"I already thought of that," Moira said. "If Isabela can be trusted, all the gossipmongers have been paid generously for their silence." As Moira and Alistair departed the room, she caught a glance of Elise, waiting impatiently on a divan just outside the chamber.

"'Bout time," she grumbled, slipping back into her room and shutting the door behind her with a loud click.

"Isabela… she's the pirate with no pants, right?"

Moira laughed out loud. "The one and only."

For the first time since the Landsmeet, she had hope for her friendship with Alistair – and hope for the Grey Wardens.


	25. We Shall Tear Down the Unassailable Gates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO MUCH for the resounding and delightful response to my last update! I had feared that such a long gap between chapters had been the death knell for this fic, but to see so many people still enthusiastically responding was truly humbling and absolutely made me overjoyed. I hope you continue to enjoy this story as I get back to a more regular update schedule (I will again hope for something more frequent than an update every other month, but at least I am certainly going to avoid another six month drought again)! Thank you all again for your amazing support. <3

"What did you say this bloke's name was? Anders? He sure picked a dismal place to set up a clinic." Alistair glanced at Moira as they threaded their way through the dank labyrinthine warrens of Darktown, the poorest quarter of Kirkwall's slums that made even Lowtown look positively plum. "And he's a mage? Are you sure about this? I've been in Kirkwall long enough to know that you don't want to be anywhere nearby when the templars start rounding up apostates."

"Well, Hawke knows him, and he's managed to avoid getting rounded up so far," Moira replied. "I need someone who can point me in the direction of the neediest refugees to bring back to Ferelden, and it sounds like this Anders fellow is my best bet. Besides, I can't imagine even the most zealous Knight-Commander provoking a diplomatic incident by arresting the 'Hero of Ferelden' for helping bring Fereldan refugees back home. It's bad publicity."

"I don't think the templars in Kirkwall care too much about their public relations," Alistair quipped. "But point taken." He glanced askance at her. "You know, this is a good thing you're doing, helping the Blight refugees come home." Moira sensed the undercurrent of guilt in his tone, though whether it was for his own previous harsh and uncharitable words towards her, or his comparative lack of charity for the Fereldan refugees, she couldn't be certain. She placed a reassuring hand on his arm.

"It's the least Loghain and I can do," she said. "And who knows? Perhaps you'll find some hale and hearty young men and women who might make good Warden recruits once we're back in Amaranthine port."

Moira was impressed that Alistair managed not to pull a face at the mention of her betrothed, though a twitch of his jaw muscle told her that Loghain's name had not gone unnoticed. Well – she supposed she shouldn't expect any miracles on that particular front.

"Perhaps so," he finally allowed. "And don't worry – I'll make certain they know exactly what Grey Warden service entails. I don't want any more Ser Jorys – or any more, well, yous." He cast a furtive and somewhat bemused glance at her. "Although you did turn out all right in the end."

She gave him a wry smile, sparing him from any need to elaborate. She knew well enough what he meant, and it gladdened her heart more than she could say that he intended to put an end to the duplicity, the secrecy, the forced conscriptions and the bad-faith 'recruitment' that Duncan had engaged in. "Thank you for doing this, Alistair," she said sincerely. "The Fereldan Grey Wardens are going to be in good hands."

"Don't thank me yet," he jibed. "You haven't given me a fair chance to muck things up."

Anders' clinic turned out to be hidden away in a forgotten corner of the Darktown slums, and Moira likely would have missed it if not for the crowd of ragged folk in threadbare clothing milling about outside. The crowd greeted them with a mixture of fear and suspicion, casting darkened glares and murmuring to each other in caustic whispers.

"Friendly bunch," Alistair said. "Not that I blame them. Neither of us looks like the sort who needs the aid of a healer in the slums. Maybe they think we're here on Meredith's behest, to shut the clinic down for good."

That thought honestly hadn't even occurred to Moira, and she felt a twinge of guilt as soon as Alistair spoke – the entire purpose of her visit would be thwarted if Anders didn't trust her enough to let her in the door. A brawny, stoutly-muscled man at the door crossed his arms, and Moira realized this must be Anders' bouncer – or, at least, a refugee who had appointed himself as such, whether at the mage's behest or not.

"What business you got here?" The man – definitely Fereldan – growled, cracking his massive knuckles audibly. "Don't look like you're in need of healing. Maybe you ought to just turn around and head back the other way, yeah?"

Moira decided that honesty – or at least, partial honesty – was the best policy. "I don't need healing, you're right," she said amicably. "But I do need to speak with Anders. I want to thank him for the kindness he's shown to the Blight refugees." She decided to omit the part about bringing the refugees home – she was certain that she and Loghain couldn't afford to bring them all home, and she didn't want an uncontrolled rush as people fought over the available berths. That was why Anders' advice would be invaluable – he would surely know which refugees were in the direst need, and she and Loghain could reach out accordingly.

"Yeah?" The burly man was unmoved. "And who're you? Our dear Queen Anora?" He scoffed. "Ain't blonde enough for that."

It was a gamble to reveal her identity, but why not? Perhaps it would get her in the door and win the crowd's esteem, the way it had so moved the beggar she and Loghain had encountered at the docks. "I'm Lady Moira Cousland of Highever," she said. "The Grey Warden who defeated the Blight."

The man fell silent, as did the gaggle of people around him. Then he burst into a gale of laughter. "Look 'ere, folks – we got the Hero of Ferelden in the flesh!" The crowd tittered in amusement as he executed a mock bow. "Pleased to meet you, milady!" The smile faded from his face to be replaced with a surly frown. "Yeah, you're the 'Hero of Ferelden,' and I'm the prince of Nevarra. Listen, lady, if you came to cause trouble, I suggest you turn around and cause it somewhere else."

"Wow, you really are thick, aren't you?" Alistair drawled, to Moira's horror. "If we came to cause trouble, this is the exact opposite of how we'd be going about it, isn't it? Most trouble doesn't walk right up to the door and politely knock, you know. So – bear with me a moment – let's try a thought exercise. Entertain, if you will, the idea that we are, in fact, entirely sincere. That this is, indeed, Lady Moira Cousland, the Hero of Ferelden, and I am her erstwhile fellow Warden, Alistair of Redcliffe. Now – do you really want to be the lug who laughed in the Hero of Ferelden's face and turned her away?"

"Alistair!" she hissed.

The big man scowled, and Moira was certain for a moment that he was going to lay out Alistair right then and there, but then, with narrowed eyes, he nodded slowly.

"Eh, suppose you're right," he begrudgingly admitted. "It's just that there's a lot of folks what wouldn't look too kindly on Master Anders, and we're a mite protective of him. Not many folks bother with us Fereldans. If you're really here to help, then go on – but I've got my eye on you, don't forget it."

At last they entered the clinic, where a young, disheveled looking man muttered distractedly to himself as he rifled through a box of various unguents, salves, and potions.

"Go ahead and have a seat, I'll be with you shortly," he said, not pausing to look up at them. "Where did I put that elfroot balm?"

"It's all right," Moira said. "We aren't here for treatment. I just came to have a word with you."

Anders' head snapped up at once, and he regarded them with a wild, paranoid look of equal parts fear and distrust.

"Who are you?" he demanded at once. "Finnegan isn't supposed to let anyone but patients inside the clinic –"

"Please, calm down," Moira implored. "Finnegan is doing his job, and quite well, I might add. I'm Lady Moira Cousland, the Grey Warden from Ferelden. I'm here in Kirkwall on business, and I'm an associate of Galen Hawke. He sent me to you and said you might be of some help."

Anders relaxed at the mention of Hawke's name, but only slightly. "Hawke sent you?" He turned to Alistair, and his gaze frosted over. "Did he send the templar, too?"

Moira glanced to Alistair in concern – how had the apostate possibly known that Alistair had once been a templar?

"You didn't have to say anything," Anders said, almost as if reading her mind. "I can smell a templar from a mile away. And I'm not very keen on having one in my clinic."

"You can  _smell_  templars?" Alistair lifted his arm and made a show of sniffing his armpit loudly. "Hmm… must be the Chantry Springs soap. Made from lye, lavender, and the distilled tears of oppressed mages." He grinned. "You got me."

"You think you're funny." The mage's glare was hard and humorless. "I know you're not one of Meredith's goons, and that's the only reason you're still here. But know this – I will not stop healing these people, and I will not go quietly. If Hawke gave me up to the Chantry – "

"Relax, please. I am not here on behalf of the Chantry, Viscount Dumar, or anyone besides myself," Moira said, glaring at Alistair, who shrugged gamely. "My friend fashions himself a wit, but he's harmless – and yes, he's an  _ex-_ templar. An ex-templar from whom you have nothing to fear – he's a Grey Warden now. We fought the Blight in Ferelden, and we're here to help bring some of the refugees home. Hawke told me you could help."

"Grey Wardens," Anders repeated, his expression shifting from hostile to deeply skeptical. "I didn't think helping refugees was under the Grey Wardens' purview." Suspicion shaded his features once again. "Are you here to conscript me? I suppose being a Grey Warden would keep me safe from the Chantry, but I've no desire to exchange one prison for another. I am  _helping_  these people – "

"And I'm not here to stop you!" Moira was beginning to lose her patience with the sullen, paranoid apostate. Maker's balls, was he always this prickly? She couldn't imagine Hawke carrying on with someone so dour – but then again, despite his temperament, Anders had apparently been among the only people in Kirkwall who'd bothered doing anything kind or charitable for the Fereldan refugees, and she knew that had to grant him a fair amount of esteem in Hawke's eyes – and in her own. She had never really thought much about the Chantry's proscription on mages living outside the Circles, though she supposed she was as naturally suspicious of apostates as any other citizen, but this man didn't seem to be doing anything untoward or dangerous.

"I think it's disgraceful how Fereldans are treated in Kirkwall," she began again, willing her voice to remain calm and even. "What you're doing for these people is a kindness, and I'm not interested in stopping you, or reporting you to the Chantry, or anything of the sort. I'm returning to Ferelden in the next few days, and my associate and I have chartered a few ships. We mean to bring as many refugees back to Ferelden as we can. Hawke told me you could point us towards the ones in greatest need – orphaned children, widows, families, the sick and frail. Please – help us."

Anders wavered for a moment, and in his expression she saw reflected a fierce inner struggle – his jaw twitched, and for a moment she saw a fiery anger in his eyes, and he almost seemed ready to become aggressive; but then his features relaxed into something more affable, and an almost relieved look passed across his countenance.

"That's unexpectedly kind of you," he said, his voice softer and warmer than before. "I… apologize for my reaction. Kirkwall is not a good place to be an apostate, and you'll forgive my suspicion, especially when well-heeled templars and Grey Wardens find their way to my clinic."

"Of course," Moira said smoothly, and Alistair, to his credit, had seen fit to dispense with any further jokes. "You can feel free to ask Hawke about us, if you like. I understand your concern. But truly, I only mean to help the Blight refugees."

"Oh, I'll certainly be asking Hawke about you," Anders said, although Moira detected more of an undertone of wry wit than mistrust in his voice. "The man does get around – he never mentioned knowing the so-called Hero of Ferelden before. Why didn't he come along? It would have allayed my suspicions – well, mostly allayed them, at any rate."

"He's with his sister and a strange elf man, investigating a Tevinter slaving operation," she said, unsure why she didn't feel comfortable disclosing the truth of the Grey Warden connection that had sent Loghain along with Hawke, Bethany, Fenris, and Stroud to the Wounded Coast. She decided that Hawke could fill Anders in later, if he so wished.

Fortunately, Anders didn't seem obliged to press for details. "Fenris," he said, his lip curling. "Just as well he didn't bring me along. We, er, don't get on."

Moira had gathered that, based on the elf's reaction to Hawke's mention of Anders back in the mansion. "I'm sorry for dropping in uninvited," she said, bringing the topic back around. "I really don't mean to take up much of your time. We can probably take about four hundred refugees on the ships."

"There are dozens of orphans," Anders said. "Maybe they still have family back in Ferelden they could go to – here, they're forced to live in the streets and beg and steal just to feed themselves." He spat. "But Viscount Dumar is too busy bowing and scraping to Meredith and her thugs to bother caring about what goes on in the streets of his city."

And so on it went, Anders providing names for the Blight refugees he judged to be most in need of a return trip to Ferelden, interspersed with muttered curses and invocations against the perfidy of Kirkwall's governance, the templars, and the Chantry for turning a blind eye to such rampant suffering. After securing a promise to direct the relevant refugees to Hawke's manor, Moira and Alistair thanked Anders with a few sovereigns for his troubles, and made their way out of Darktown.

"Interesting fellow," Alistair said lightly as they headed back towards Hawke's manse. "Bit of a zealot, though. He tried to give me his manifesto when you stepped out to use the privy."

"He has a manifesto?" Moira said. "I'm surprised he thought the former templar would be more receptive than the so-called 'Hero of Ferelden.'"

Alistair shrugged. "He asked me if I'd ever been in a Circle, like he was ready to hang me for all the crimes of every templar who's ever abused his authority, but he came around a bit when I said I'd been recruited into the Wardens before I finished my templar training. Maybe that only makes me half-evil, or something."

"Well, whatever Anders' issues are with the Chantry, at least he's helping the refugees," Moira said diplomatically. "Hawke certainly seems to keep an assortment of interesting friends. His sister was an apostate, so perhaps he has a soft spot for Anders. Who can say?"

"This is the sister you're foisting on me?"

"I'm not foisting anyone on anyone!" Moira said, rolling her eyes. "Maker's breath, I forgot how tiresome you can be."

"Now, that's the nicest thing anyone's said to me since Morrigan told me I was dumber than the dog."

"You  _are_  dumber than the dog, but that's not your fault. My Dane is a very bright fellow, I'll have you know."

They continued on in such a vein all the way to Hawke's manor, Moira's heart lighter than it had been in weeks.

 

* * *

 

Her bright humor did not long survive her return to Hawke's mansion. Loghain, Hawke, and company had already returned by the time Moira and Alistair entered the manor, and from the looks of things, the expedition had not gone well. Bethany's expression was troubled, and Hawke too was broody and silent. Stroud and Fenris were nowhere to be seen. And Loghain…

Moira could not recall her lover ever looking so profoundly heartsick. Angry, upset, sullen, aggrieved, yes – but his expression now was none of those things. Instead, he looked ashen, as though he'd just witnessed an atrocity. He barely met her gaze as she entered Hawke's parlor, and did not seem to register Alistair's presence at all. To his immense credit, Alistair too picked up on the dire mood, and kept his witticisms to himself for once.

"What's wrong?" she said without prelude. "Where are Stroud and Fenris?"

"Stroud's off preparing a report for the Wardens," Hawke said, his voice subdued. "Fenris… left. He's fine, don't worry."

Bethany was regarding Alistair with a curious gleam in her eye. "You're a Grey Warden," she said thoughtfully. "I can feel you." Bethany blushed crimson as Alistair's eyebrows quirked in amusement. "Er, through the taint, I mean."

"Guilty as charged," Alistair said, clearly relieved to be given an opportunity to dispel the tension in the room with a quip. His own gaze was intrigued as he took in Bethany for the first time. "You must be Bethany."

"Um, yes," she said, her blush deepening. She cleared her throat, apparently realizing how awkward she sounded. "Yes, I'm Bethany Hawke. You've, um, heard of me?"

Alistair rubbed at the back of his neck, a tic Moira knew he only indulged in when nervous. "I, uh, was told you might be coming back with me to Ferelden. To be a Grey Warden. Obviously. Er… I'm Alistair, by the way."

"Why don't I get you two a drink in the study," Hawke said, his eyes meeting Moira's for the briefest of moments. "I'm sure you have lots of Grey Warden business to discuss." He herded his sister out of the room, and Alistair was wise enough to follow without complaint, leaving Moira alone with Loghain.

"Loghain, what's wrong?" Moira said softly, approaching her betrothed, whose expression remained faraway and haunted.

"Not here," he said quietly. At Moira's alarmed expression, he took her hand and gave it a gentle kiss. "Upstairs. Hawke set aside a guest bedroom for us. I'd like some privacy."

"Loghain, what is it? What's happened?" Her heart hammered a rapid drumbeat as she followed Loghain up the stairs, her mind concocting a more dire explanation for his mood with every step.

At last, when they were in the bedroom and the door shut firmly behind them, Moira went to him, taking his hands in her own, her thumbs rubbing vigorous circles against the back of his hands.

"My love, please, what's bothering you? You're scaring me. What happened?" she whispered, pulling him close, begging him to look at her. At last, he did, his expression as dismal as Moira had ever seen.

"I suppose I should start at the beginning," he said quietly. "We followed the elf's lead to a cave on the Wounded Coast. His source was a slave broker, a middleman who'd helped move the slaves through the tunnels of Kirkwall 'for a fee.'" Loghain looked disgusted. "Fenris apparently… persuaded… the broker to share what he knew of his employers. The man claimed that the slaver ringleader was an Orlesian, who'd brushed aside any queries of his involvement in the trade with the excuse that it was 'Grey Warden business.' Fenris thus brought the information he'd obtained to Stroud, and we all journeyed to this meeting place where the broker had claimed to have met this Warden contact."

None of this sounded too far outside the boundary of what she already knew of the situation to account for Loghain's change in mood, and Moira's apprehension mounted. "What happened? Did something happen there, Loghain? Talk to me."

Loghain sighed, a long, drawn-out and defeated sound. "No one was there. No slaves, no Grey Wardens, no Tevinters, no one. It appeared as though whoever had been there, however, had left in a hurry and hadn't managed to pick up after themselves. We found a trove of documents that proved to be quite illuminating."

Moira stared at Loghain, an ill feeling churning in her belly. "And? Is that a bad thing? Were you able to prove that the slavers were working with the Grey Wardens?"

"Not definitively, no, though there were some damning associations – a letter, for example, detailing a request of 'C' for, and I quote, 'specimens from Ferelden – preferably Blight-afflicted regions' and 'in particular, specimens with Blight-sickness highly desired.' The latter bit was underlined several times. What ordinary slaver wants a slave with a dangerous, lethal illness?" He shook his head. "That's when I started to suspect something terrible. But then Fenris found another document."

"What other document?" A cold, twisting anxiety coiled through her as Moira began to understand where the tale was headed.

Loghain was silent for several moments, and Moira felt a gentle pressure as he squeezed her hands in his, his rough fingerpads tracing a delicate pattern against the soft pulse of her wrist.

"A copy of the bill of sale for several dozen elves from the Denerim alienage, signed and sealed by the Teyrn of Gwaren." He closed his eyes and released another sad, defeated sigh. "Fenris found it, and rather quickly put the pieces together. Of course, I didn't bother to deny it. How could I?"

His voice was quieter and more pensive than Moira had ever heard before, and instinctively, she moved close, releasing his hands to slip her arms around him, gathering him in an embrace.

"Loghain," she whispered, her own feelings a roiling tide of confusion – sympathy and sorrow for her beloved and his distress, mixed in with her own unresolved anger and sense of profound injustice regarding his unconscionable actions in the alienage. They had confronted many of Loghain's demons from the Blight, and they had discussed this issue, too, but they had been so swept up in the battle against the darkspawn that there had been no real time to revisit the topic – and, if Moira was being honest, no real point. It had happened, it was done and couldn't be undone, and while she knew Loghain regretted all the terrible things he'd done, all they could do from this point on was move forward. But now, it appeared his demons from the past had come back to haunt him in a very real way.

"Fenris was furious and disgusted, and I didn't blame him. Do you know what those marks on his body are?" Loghain said, his eyes bright. "They're lyrium brands, seared into his flesh by his own master. And for what? So a magister could have a unique plaything to show off to his fellow slavers?"

"Loghain – " Moira reached up to touch his face, but he shied away from her.

"Please." His voice was strained with anguish. "Do not attempt to assuage my guilt. I deserve everything he said to me, and more." He shook his head in a gesture of despair, but this time he did not shy away from Moira's hands coming up to gently rest upon his shoulders.

"Loghain, listen to me," she said, gently but firmly, squeezing him for emphasis. "What you did, then – it was inexcusable. I won't try to tell you otherwise. You went mad –"

"Did I?" he pressed her, his voice strained with a quiet urgency. "Did I truly 'go mad,' Moira? Or did I decide that money for the war coffers was worth shipping off a few inconvenient rabble-rousers starting riots in the city? Do you really think me above such a moral calculation?"

Moira shook her head slowly, unwilling to believe such a heinous thing of the man she'd come to know and to love. "You weren't in your right mind," she said firmly. "You had Howe whispering in your ear, I know the slavers were his idea –"

"An idea I did nothing to discourage!" he exclaimed. "I could have – should have – had Howe executed for what he did at Highever, but I didn't. I allowed him to prop up my 'regency.' I let him talk me into hiring assassins to send after you and your comrades. I let him convince me to sell our people to Tevinter. What does that say about me, Moira? I was either weak-minded and easily led about by the nose, or entirely complicit. I cannot decide which is worse." He moved to turn away, but she gripped his shoulders tighter and pulled him around to face her.

"You listen to me, Loghain Mac Tir," she snapped, her miasma of conflicting emotions coalescing into an unexpected anger. "I forgave you for what you did! It wasn't easy, at first – for some time after the Landsmeet, all I could see when I looked at you was the man who'd enabled my family's murderer. But then I saw a different man – a man who was deeply troubled by the things he'd done, a good man, a man who truly loved his country and wanted to make amends for his wrongs. I fell in love with that man. And if I can forgive you – I, who know full well the litany of your sins – then you can forgive yourself. Yes, what you did was terrible – to me, to the elves, to Highever, to the country. You were wrong. But please, my love, you serve no one with this wallowing."

"Fenris didn't see fit to be as generous as you," he said, his mournful gaze focused in the distance. "He called me a monster, a slaver – names I've well-earned. He was going to kill me, you know – it was only Hawke's pleas that kept him from finishing the job. I truly believe he only stayed his hand out of respect for his friend. So tell me, Moira, was he wallowing?"

Moira felt a burning tear slide down her cheek, but she did not move her hands from Loghain's shoulders to brush it away – her need to touch him, to maintain contact with him, was imperative, as though if she let him go, he would be lost forever, swept away in a tide of remorse and vengeance. She was surprised when he drew her in close – ever since their conversation had begun, he'd tried to distance himself from her, avoiding her eyes, turning away from the outrage and the accusations he'd thought – or, perhaps, hoped – to see in her eyes.

Moira was torn in two. She loved Loghain, desperately – yes, even knowing this about him, even knowing everything about him. Maker forsake her, but she loved him anyway. She wanted to help him, to pull him out of this misery, to tell him that everything would be all right. But how could she? She realized, with a dismal clarity, that he was right. How could he forgive himself for such a monstrous act, especially when no forgiveness was offered by those who had suffered greatly at the hands of the evil he'd enabled? How could anyone forgive him for what he'd done in Denerim?

The answer came to her as a lance through the heart, equal parts painful and joyous. She could forgive him  _because_  she loved him – and he could forgive himself, had to forgive himself, because he loved her.

"Loghain, I can't wipe away your guilt," she said, drawing back from his embrace to meet his gaze, blinking tears from her eyes so that she could see him clearly. "And maybe I shouldn't try. What you did to those people was awful and cannot be undone. But when you hate yourself for it – when you punish yourself like this – you're hurting me, too. I know you hate what you did, and you should. But it cannot be changed. You just… you have to find a way to move forward, and be better now. If not for yourself alone, then for me."

Loghain stared at her for several long moments, his arms warm and snug around her, his expression undergoing a gradual transformation from anguish to awe. At long last, he closed his eyes, and leaned in to rest his forehead against hers. Seizing his nearness eagerly, Moira's hands traveled from his shoulders to thread through his hair, holding him in place against her.

"I love you," she whispered, her voice harsh and raw with grief. "I love all of who you are, Loghain, because you're strong enough to admit that you've done wrong, and you're strong enough to make things right. I know you are."

She felt a splash of moisture against her cheek as another tear dripped against her face, and only belatedly did she realize it had fallen from Loghain's eyes. "Twenty-three men, seventeen women, and two children," he whispered. "That was the 'description of goods' on the bill of sale that I signed and sealed for those monsters. Forty-two people – my people, our people – gone forever, because of me. How can I make that right, Moira?"

"Maybe you keep them with you, in your heart, to remind you," she whispered. "Use their memory to avoid making the same mistakes of the past. Honor them by being a great and noble teyrn, a champion for those who can no longer speak for themselves."

Loghain released a long, shaky sigh, and Moira felt his head move gently against hers as he nodded. "You're right," he said, voice quiet with subdued resolve. Moira squeezed him in response, her heart leaping as her beloved found his emotional bearings once again. "I'll make things better, in the alienage, for those who remain. It's a travesty that has gone unaddressed for too long, and I won't be party to it any longer. I won't allow the same thinking that led me down that path to take root again, I swear it."

"Oh, Loghain," Moira sighed, melting into him, burying her face in his neck. She inhaled deeply, reveling in the scent that was so uniquely him, feeling her skin against his. "You know I'm here with you, every step of the way. I love you so much."

"I know," he murmured into her hair. "Maker's mercy, I love you more than I can say." They held each other tightly for a long time, reveling in the closeness and intimacy of their contact. At last, he sighed, and detached himself from her gently, with a soft, rueful smile.

"Whatever would I do without you, my sweet?" he said, leaning in to give her a gentle kiss.

"Sit around feeling sorry for yourself, most likely," she replied with a wry smile. He harrumphed.

"Impudent woman," he chided good-naturedly. "I'll have you know, I'm not one to 'sit around.'" He regarded her with a thoughtful look. "I saw you managed to retrieve your friend. Did you have much success with Hawke's contact, the healer?"

"He was an odd fellow, but he's been a great help to the refugees, and he was able to point me in the right direction. With his and Hawke's assistance, I think we'll have enough folks to board the ships for home."

Loghain sighed in relief. "Then at least one good thing will have come of this whole blighted adventure. Well, two, I suppose, since we are coming home with a pair of Grey Wardens in tow. Fereldan Wardens, at that." He furrowed his brows. "I am grateful for Ser Hawke's hospitality, but I will not be sorry to leave this miserable city behind."

"That makes two of us," Moira agreed. "It will be good to be home. I'll have to smooth things over with your daughter about the Alistair situation –"

"Don't worry about Anora," Loghain said. "I know her judgment at the Landsmeet was harsh, but Eamon's scheming had put her entire reign in jeopardy. Now that the threat has passed, I'm certain she'll consent to allowing Alistair to resume his Grey Warden duties." He raised an eyebrow. "I still can't say as though I'm eager to have the lad back myself, but I trust your judgment. It's certainly proved sounder than mine."

"Hmm," Moira purred playfully. "I'm going to remind you of that the next time you're being a stubborn arse."

Loghain harrumphed in faux dismay, even as he pulled her in for a decidedly more intimate kiss. Moira groaned eagerly against his mouth, the heightened emotions of the day coalescing into a burning need for him that flamed through her blood. She pressed her body tight against his, her tongue seeking and gaining entrance to his mouth, tangling with his as their kiss evolved from heated to desperate. With a ragged moan, her hands found their way to the hem of his shirt –

A firm knock on the door sent the lovers reeling apart, cursing vehemently under their breath. "What is it?" Loghain snapped irritably, too afire with his interrupted passion to bother with manners.

"Sorry to interrupt," Hawke's droll voice through the door made it obvious that he felt nothing of the sort. "But I really should see about dinner, and it certainly won't do for the guests of honor to hide upstairs all night. Besides, if I leave my sister and that Warden boy alone for too long, I'm afraid they'll be consumed in a sinkhole of their own awkwardness. I haven't heard this much fumbling and stuttering since the first time I snuck into the hay loft with a milkmaid."

Moira shook her head to clear it of the unwanted mental image Hawke had so graciously provided. "Lovely," she said, hoping she managed to disguise her own irritation at their thwarted tryst a bit better than Loghain had. "We'll be right down."

"Splendid," Hawke said, and Moira narrowed her eyes at the ebullience in his tone – he sounded like a cat who'd found the cream, and she suspected he knew full well what he'd just interrupted.

"Splendid indeed," Loghain groused. "Certainly I'd prefer to baby-sit a pair of mooncalves than take my woman. Maker's balls."

Moira's face flushed hot with desire at his bald words. "Oh, don't fret, dear – I'm sure you'll have plenty of opportunities to take your woman later."

Loghain gave her a wicked half-grin. "I had better," he murmured, leaning in for one last ardent kiss before begrudgingly opening the bedroom door. Moira took a shaky breath as she followed him down the stairs. Though she enjoyed Hawke's – and Alistair's – company, dinner was guaranteed to be a long, fitful affair, knowing that her shamelessly lusty future husband would be sitting mere feet away.

But she could hardly complain – the Hawkes were good folk whom she was pleased to have met; she'd found Alistair and was bringing him home, and their friendship was on the mend; and she and Loghain had managed to bring aid to hundreds of Fereldans in need. It had been a successful journey, despite the painful reminders of past sins.

But all in all, she was eager to get home: to Ferelden, to Denerim, perhaps to Gwaren at last – and to their future together.


	26. Unexpected Guests

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all... my sincere apologies for the delay with this chapter. I have been dealing with some pretty serious writer's block and general lack of inspiration, thanks to a pretty rough patch I'm going through in life right now. There were days I struggled to figure out how to write this chapter, and other days where I sat down for hours to work on it and could only manage one sentence, if I was lucky. This chapter was tough for me to write for several reasons, but having it done at last feels so wonderful, and I feel as though a burden has been lifted that was holding me back from working on this story. I won't make any easily-breakable promises about the timing of the next update, but please rest assured that no matter how long it takes, I am NOT abandoning this story. I love Loghain and Moira, and their story will be told, no matter how long it takes.
> 
> I want to thank my dear friends betagyre and bushviper from the bottom of my heart for their endless support and encouragement of me as I've struggled with this chapter and with writing in general, and without whom this chapter probably would have taken far longer, if it ever arrived at all. You guys are the best friends a gal could ask for, and you remind me why I love this story and why I love to write when I am in danger of forgetting to myself.
> 
> Anyway... I apologize that this isn't the most exciting chapter to come back from a long hiatus with, but I hope you enjoy it anyway, and things WILL be picking up from here on out... stay tuned, and thank you so much for your support, all of you!

"Well, that went much better than I expected."

Loghain glanced up from packing clothes into his travel pack to fix Moira with a wry glance. "Yes, because most of the nobles who will stir themselves into high dudgeon at the next Landsmeet have left Denerim. Anora is cautious, but she is fundamentally fair. I did not expect her to push back against my proposal, now that her reign is secure and she enjoys the popularity of the people and the esteem of the Hero of Ferelden." Moira pulled a face at Loghain's droll use of her unwanted appellation, but he continued unfazed. "She also clearly enjoys the favor of the brother of said hero, and, well – having had a chance to become better acquainted with your brother, I am unsurprised that he is in favor as well. Your family's commitment to justice does you credit." Moira's flush was deeper this time, and Loghain turned back to his own pack, allowing her a quiet moment to experience the pang of grief that always accompanied any mention of her lost family.

"That is true," she said after a space. "And Anora's privy council comprises only her longtime loyalists. Whatever their true feelings about elves or the alienages, they would never dare contradict the wishes of their queen in public."

"The true test will not come until the next Landsmeet. It is one thing to convince Anora and your brother, and quite another to corral enough support amongst those bickering fools, many of whom will no doubt balk at the notion of allowing elves to mingle amongst their freeholders as equal subjects whose support can make or break their rule."

Moira returned his wry look and resumed filling her own pack. That was true enough – it was one thing to announce a revolutionary proposal for the rights of elves to Anora, Fergus, and other crown loyalists; it would be quite another to debate abolishing the alienages and granting elves the full rights of Fereldan freeholders at the next Landsmeet, where no doubt the various banns and arls who benefited from the current arrangement would defend the status quo vigorously. It certainly guaranteed that the next Landsmeet would be lively.

"Oh, I expect your proposal to abolish alienage restrictions to invite outrage once the news spreads," Moira agreed. "But I truly thought we'd meet more resistance from Anora about appointing Alistair as the Warden-Commander in Ferelden. She _did_ rather publicly exile him, after all."

"Yes, but she's no fool. She knows it was a choice between a devil she knows – and a fairly benign devil, at that – and a devil she doesn't. She also understands that Alistair never truly desired her throne and presents no real threat."

Moira arched an eyebrow at Loghain. "That's what I spent months trying to tell you, and you fought me every inch of the way. Stubborn man. I'm glad you've finally deigned to see reason."

Loghain harrumphed. "Well, the boy hardly helped his own case," he grumped. At Moira's exasperated glare, he offered a wry half-smile. "But yes, perhaps I was too prideful to admit that I was wrong about him. Fortunately for me, I have a patient woman who endures my bullish obstinacy with grace."

It was Moira's turn to snort. "Well, it's fortunate that Anora is more sensible than her thick-headed father. She acceded quite readily once I presented my case for accepting Alistair's oath as the Warden-Commander of Ferelden." Moira's smile softened, and she laid a gentle hand on Loghain's forearm. "She's a strong-minded and willful woman, but she's reasonable enough to listen to her advisors and accept sound judgments that might challenge her own. She's going to make a great queen, you know."

A look of paternal pride crossed Loghain's face. "She already is," he said quietly.

They were interrupted by a knock at the door; with a roll of his eyes, Loghain stepped away from Moira and opened the door to greet a palace courier.

"My apologies, Your Grace. I am given to understand that you and Lady Cousland are preparing to depart for Gwaren, but a party of Grey Wardens has made an unexpected arrival at the palace, and they have requested your presence."

"A party of Grey Wardens?" Loghain narrowed his eyes. "Who are these Grey Wardens, and from where did they 'unexpectedly arrive'?" He harrumphed in displeasure and regarded the courier with a vexed glower. "As you are no doubt aware, Lady Cousland and I are no longer within the Grey Warden chain of command in Ferelden. Direct these new arrivals to Warden-Commander Alistair and Warden Bethany."

The courier seemed ill-at-ease. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, but they insisted upon meeting with the heroes of the Blight who had slain the Archdemon. They claim to have orders from Weisshaupt to discuss the ending of the Fifth Blight with the Wardens who were present for the final battle. It all sounded like administrative Grey Warden nonsense, if you'll beg my pardon."

Loghain met Moira's eyes and they shared an expression of long-suffering impatience. It was true enough that word of Alistair and Bethany's return to Ferelden had likely not yet reached the Grey Warden hierarchy, but even so, they had been naïve to imagine that the Wardens would not be curious about the Hero of Ferelden's miraculous survival. According to Riordan, _no_ Warden could survive the destruction of the Archdemon – that one somehow had would invariably raise a myriad of questions.

Moira felt a tremor of unease ripple through her – what would happen when these Wardens discovered she and Loghain no longer bore the taint? Ser Stroud had been intrigued, but declined to press them further; she very much doubted these Wardens, if they were dispatched from Weisshaupt to determine exactly what had happened at the end of the Blight, would be so easily satisfied. What would she tell them? She recalled Leliana's heated exhortation not to trust the Wardens with the secret of the ashes – but then what _would_ she say? What explanation could she come up with to satisfy the Wardens and discourage further curiosity?

"And these Wardens insist upon meeting with us now? Meaning that they'll just follow us to Gwaren if we don't get this nonsense done and over with?" Loghain groused. The courier had no real response to that, of course, and so Loghain heaved a defeated sigh. "Very well. Inform the Wardens we shall be there shortly."

The courier bobbed his head in a polite nod, clearly relieved. "Of course, Your Grace. At once." When the door closed behind him, Loghain turned to Moira with a wary eye.

"Just when I thought we were done with Grey Wardens for awhile," Loghain growled. "I should have known we couldn't be that fortunate."

"It's not surprising that the Wardens would want a firsthand account of the end of the Fifth Blight," Moira allowed. "Especially if word has reached them that I have recovered from my affliction. Riordan claimed no Warden could survive slaying the Archdemon. They must wonder why I am the exception."

"And if you remain determined to shield the truth of the Sacred Ashes from them, their curiosity is most inconvenient," Loghain replied. "What, exactly, _are_ you going to tell them? Surely not the truth."

"No," she said at once. "I… I can't. I know you don't believe in Leliana's visions – "

"I would not be so quick to discount your friend," Loghain interrupted softly. "I… whatever she experienced in the Temple affected her profoundly. I do not know whether it was truly a sign from the Maker, but…" He sighed. "I certainly trust Leliana more than I trust a contingent of Grey Wardens I've never met."

So did Moira, of course… but that did not resolve her dilemma of what, exactly, she ought to tell these Wardens. The truth about the Sacred Ashes was out of the question, she had already decided that much, but then – what? She supposed the nearest version of the truth was probably the best course.

"I'll just tell them I don't know what happened," she said. "After all, that's true enough, isn't it? I have no idea why I survived killing Urthemiel. By all accounts, I shouldn't have. My prolonged unconsciousness, the Ashes, the curing of the taint… all of that arose as an unintended consequence of my survival. And since I truly don't know why I survived…" She shrugged. "Ignorance is perhaps the best, and most honest, defense."

Loghain's face drew into a grimace at Moira's matter-of-fact recounting of her certainty that she would die on Fort Drakon. "Well, I for one am eternally thankful to the Maker that the Grey Warden legends were wrong," he said, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. She returned his affection with a gentle smile and a squeeze of his hand.

"As am I. I suppose dealing with an inquisitive lot of Wardens is a bearable price to pay for surviving the battle."

They exited their quarters and made their way to the palace's reception chamber, where a group of five Grey Wardens waited, their attention turning to Moira and Loghain as the Heroes of Ferelden entered. A quick appraisal yielded to Moira a cursory notion of the group's dynamics. A tall man, trim but fit, stood before the rest of the Wardens, who clearly deferred to him. He was a man of around Loghain's age, handsome in a coldly patrician way, with close-cropped hair the color of steel and eyes as icy blue as Loghain's. Flanking him were two mages: a trim elven woman, tall and willowy, whose eyes remained downcast even as Moira took her measure, and a nondescript man with dark hair and eyes – perhaps Nevarran, though Moira could not say for certain – who stood closely to the older Warden's elbow, as if offering silent support. Rounding out the group were two large, well-built men with the rough, weathered faces of lifelong soldiers. They stood one to each side of the group, scowling suspiciously as Loghain and Moira entered the chamber.

A prickle of apprehension crept along Moira's spine as the older man appraised her. A rapid succession of minute expressions flitted almost imperceptibly across his stern features, almost too quickly for Moira to take note – but by the time she'd registered his reaction, he had reassembled his face into a mask of cool nonchalance.

_He knows_ , she thought, her insides squirming with unease. The dark-eyed mage, too, had clearly taken note – though he, unlike the steely-eyed warrior, made no attempt to disguise the naked curiosity in his gaze. The elven mage still refused to meet her eyes, and the other two warriors glowered impassively.

"The Heroes of Ferelden, vanquishers of the Fifth Blight." The older man spoke, his voice mellifluous with the clipped accent of the Orlesian nobility. "It is a true honor to meet you. " He dipped his head in a formal bow before extending a gauntleted hand to Moira. "You must be the Warden Moira Cousland, by whose hand the Archdemon now lies dead."

Moira could not see Loghain's expression, but she could feel the tension radiating palpably from him as the Orlesian man took her hand in his and raised it to his lips.

"I am Armand Montclair, Senior Warden in command of the Jader outpost. These are my fellow Wardens," he said, gesturing expansively at his companions. "All of us are most certainly indebted to you both for ending the Blight before it could spread further." He bowed again, and this time, Moira managed a glance askance at Loghain just in time to see him stiffen in mounting indignation.

"Before it could spread to Orlais, you mean," he said, his voice taut with barely suppressed disdain. The Orlesian – Montclair – turned to Loghain for the first time, scrutinizing him with a quick but studied glance.

"You must be Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir," Montclair said, his voice carefully neutral. "Word of your conscription reached Jader just before the news of the death of the Archdemon. You are a man of some infamy in Orlais… but, of course, we all leave our pasts behind us when we take up the mantle of the Grey." His expression betrayed no change, but Moira detected a rueful undercurrent to his guarded words.

Loghain grunted and fixed Montclair with a flinty gaze. "A foolhardy fantasy entertained only by those who have never known what it is to bleed for their homeland. No poisoned chalice can undo who we are, or what we have done."

The Orlesian smiled tightly. "Perhaps you are right, Warden Mac Tir. Perhaps we are, all of us, slaves to the past. Perhaps not even the shared bond of our corruption can overcome blood hatreds older still." He returned Loghain's steely gaze with his own unflinching expression. "But I am not here to fight my father's war, Hero of River Dane. I am here because it seems that, for the first time in recorded history, a Warden has survived the destruction of the Archdemon. An impossible feat, if you believe the legends. Weisshaupt is very curious how the Lady Warden Cousland has managed to do what no Grey Warden has ever done." His gaze slipped from Loghain back to Moira, fixing her with the same calculated stare. The apprehension that had crawled along Moira's spine upon first meeting the Wardens returned in spades. She'd known that these questions were forthcoming; had known it as soon as the courier had announced the Wardens' arrival. But now that they had come, she found herself uneasy with the lies she knew she would have to tell, unsure of whether her words would be enough to forestall the burning curiosity of the Wardens.

Before Moira could reply, Montclair raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, his gaze softening. "I apologize for the stridency of my tone, Warden Cousland. I do not mean to be so abrupt. You must understand that this is an unprecedented, and, frankly, baffling state of affairs. Weisshaupt is not accustomed to any defiance of its age-old traditions, purposeful or no."

Moira noticed that none of Montclair's companions seemed inclined to speak: the two warriors continued to glower sullenly; the elven mage seemed drawn in on herself, as if trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible; and the dark-haired mage, though his inquisitive expression belied his interest in the conversation, maintained a steady silence. Perhaps the Grey Wardens of Jader stood far more on ceremony than Moira ever had with Alistair, Duncan, or Loghain; but then again, she'd never truly been a 'proper' Warden, brought up in the ranks and subject to the chain of command. Armand Montclair was clearly the leader of these Wardens, and the others seemed content to allow him to speak for them all. Still, Moira found herself curious, and wished now she'd had the presence of mind to ask Riordan about his comrades. What were true Grey Wardens, who'd served for years under the Warden chain of command, really like? She understood for the first time that she had no idea what it was truly like to live as a Grey Warden.

"Of course, Warden Montclair," she replied, eagerly seizing upon Montclair's diplomatic olive branch. "In truth, my education as a Grey Warden was sorely lacking. I was not properly… informed of the consequences of the Joining until after my commander was killed in battle. What I know was pieced together from my fellow Warden Alistair, and later Riordan, who I believe served with you at Jader." Montclair's eyes remained carefully blank, and if the mention of Riordan had meant anything to him, he did not show it. "Riordan informed me of the fate of the Warden who strikes the final blow against the Archdemon, and yet… after I slew Urthemiel, I fell into a deep, unwaking slumber, but I did not die." So far, so good – she'd been able to tell the truth up to a point, after all. But now came the lies, and Moira had never been a particularly adept liar.

"So I see," Montclair replied pithily. "You must understand how surprising the news of your survival was to those of us who, to put it bluntly, had expectedly only to hear the name of the Warden whose sacrifice would join those of the other heroes of past blights who gave their lives to end the darkspawn menace. When we heard that you had survived in a dreamless slumber, we were all quite taken aback, but then again – it has been over four hundred years since the Fourth Blight. Perhaps Warden lore was just that – legends that had grown in the retelling. But when further word reached us of your miraculous recovery, Weisshaupt became suspicious. How could the traditions, the tales of our order have been so wrong? You understand why they seek answers." He regarded her with a canny look. "And even Weisshaupt does not know that you no longer bear our corruption. I find myself consumed with curiosity at the mystery you present, Lady Cousland. How is it that you have not only survived slaying the Archdemon, but emerged from the battle cured of the taint?"

Moira shared a brief glance with Loghain, whose fierce gaze offered her silent support. She was grateful that he'd been sensible enough to refrain from further baiting the Orlesian Warden and allowed her to direct the conversation, and she knew that, no matter what story she concocted for the benefit of these Wardens, he would give his assent without question.

She decided to tell the simplest lie. "I honestly don't know what happened," she said, which was at least somewhat true. "After killing the Archdemon, I fell unconscious on the ramparts. Loghain realized I still lived, and saw to it that I was taken into convalescence in the palace. I was later told that I remained asleep for nearly two months. When I awakened, I no longer bore the taint. Neither did Loghain. I cannot explain it." Moira willed herself not to shake, nor display any outward signs of nervous anxiety – Montclair knew no more than she did, after all, and as long as she and Loghain could maintain a credible ignorance, then what more could the Warden say?

Montclair's eyes narrowed, his expression a mask of thoughtful but intense scrutiny that focused on each Fereldan in turn. "I could perhaps understand if, somehow, slaying the Archdemon removes the taint from the Warden who strikes the final blow, but why should that have affected Warden Mac Tir? You are telling me that any Warden who is near the Archdemon when it perishes is cured of the taint? How can this be?"

"Did the taint leave you immediately after the death of the Archdemon? Did you perhaps come into direct contact with any of its blood? Its ichor?" The dark-haired mage spoke up now, his own eyes shining with eager interest. Montclair shot him a quick, hard look, and the mage slumped back into place, falling silent.

"Lucian – I will ask the questions of our gracious hosts. Let us not make these heroes feel as if we are subjecting them to an inquisition," the Orlesian snapped.

The mage's face burned red with shame as he bowed his head. "Of course, Lord Montclair. My deepest apologies. I meant no offense."

"It's all right," Moira interjected, feeling awkward about the obvious embarrassment of the mage at his commander's upbraiding, and seeing a chance to reinforce the lie she and Loghain needed these Wardens to believe. "I know it sounds absurd and unbelievable, but truly – we have no explanation, nor any plausible theories. Perhaps if I had been a more experienced Warden –"

"Warden Mac Tir," Montclair said, fixing a skeptical eye on Loghain. "When did you notice that you no longer bore the taint? You did not experience the same… reaction… to the Archdemon's death as Warden Cousland."

"I have no idea," Loghain responded gruffly. "The aftermath of the battle was chaos, and I was far more concerned with Moira than with myself. The darkspawn were gone, and the only other being in Denerim who still bore the taint was Moira. I was far too preoccupied with her ill health to focus on whether I could sense the taint in her, and I did not spare a thought to whether I still experienced it myself. Perhaps it disappeared the moment the Archdemon died, or perhaps when Moira awakened. I do not have an answer for you, Orlesian."

Montclair pursed his lips tightly, and Moira felt her stomach drop – he did not believe them, and he was not satisfied with their explanation. Would he be able to find out about the ashes somehow? Who else knew, besides Leliana? Anora and Fergus, but they were certainly not going to volunteer any information, nor would the Grey Wardens have the kind of influence to demand the Queen of Ferelden and the Teyrn of Highever submit to their interrogation. The lie might be flimsy and incredible, but how could the Wardens disprove it?

"You'll forgive my skepticism," Montclair said. "It is just that… many Wardens have struggled in vain for centuries to discover a cure for the Calling. It is our curse, and one we bear gladly to serve Thedas, and yet… if there is anything you know, any clue or information you can provide, that would aid the Order in discovering how to reverse the Calling…" He trailed off, and for the first time, Moira felt a pang of sympathy. How devastated had she been when Alistair had revealed the true nature of the taint to her, when she'd realized for the first time that her life was bound to the Blight, that it would eventually claim her and turn her into a husk of her former self? How could she truly blame these Wardens for grasping at any hope that the taint might not be irreversible?

For a moment, she considered telling them everything – about her coma, about Loghain's journey, about the ashes. But Leliana's stern exhortation echoed in her mind, along with the promise she'd sworn at her friend's insistence – and who was Moira to discount Leliana's visions, or, at least, Leliana's faith in those visions? Without Leliana, she would have been lost to the Void, trapped in an unbearable prison with a fragment of Urthemiel's cursed soul for eternity. Loghain would have stumbled through his grief, inconsolable and furious with his own helplessness, until the Calling at last claimed him too. And so, if for no other reason than to keep faith with her dear friend, Moira kept the secret of the ashes in her heart.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I wish I could help you… I truly do." That, at least, was not a lie.

Montclair nodded absently, though he was unable to fully keep the disappointment from reaching his eyes. Perhaps he had never become accustomed to hiding his emotions without the benefit of the mask he'd once worn, when he had played the Grand Game, in a different life that no longer belonged to him.

"I understand. I suppose that Weisshaupt will not be pleased with the lack of conclusive answers, but then again, when is Weisshaupt ever pleased? They shall have to be content with my report. I cannot promise that the First Warden will be satisfied, but… it is out of my hands now." He shrugged. "I thank you for your time, Heroes of the Blight, and apologize for the intrusion. It has been a pleasure." He bowed, and his companions followed suit: the dark-haired mage – Lucian – bowed his head deeply, the elven mage managed a brief nod before shrinking back into herself, and the warriors each managed a surly squint that might have been an acknowledgment. Moira returned a courtly bow of her head, and even Loghain managed a nod and a grunt. At a gesture from Montclair, the Wardens turned and filed out of the chamber, leaving Moira and Loghain alone with their thoughts.

"Well, that went better than I thought it would," Moira said, echoing her sentiment from earlier in the day. She supposed that for a day of multiple uncomfortable conversations, this one could have been much worse.

"I don't trust that Orlesian," Loghain grated. "He accepted our paper-thin fabrications far too easily. If you think we've heard the last from the Grey Wardens, then I'm afraid you'll be rudely surprised."

Moira cast an exasperated glare at him. "Of course you don't trust an Orlesian, Loghain – your default reaction to every Orlesian in Thedas is sullen suspicion! You glowered and sulked at Ser Stroud, too, and he was perfectly lovely."

"Armand Montclair did not strike me as 'perfectly lovely,'" Loghain retorted. "I've met his like before. It is the Orlesian way to offer flowery words and false promises before slipping a knife between your ribs, smiling all the while. It's all a part of the 'Grand Game.' I'd wager all the gold in the treasury that he didn't believe a word we said, and is just biding his time."

"Biding his time to do what? Come back and ask us more questions? If he does, then we'll tell him the same thing we told him today." She regarded him with a weary expression. "Not every Orlesian is playing the Game, Loghain. If Montclair has been a Warden long enough to command an entire garrison, then he hasn't been directly involved in Imperial politics for years. He struck me as a man who just wanted answers, and frankly, I don't blame him. If I still bore the taint and I thought another Warden knew of a cure…"

Loghain sighed, sensing Moira's conflict, and wrapped his arms around her. "Perhaps you're right," he admitted grudgingly. "I do have… an inherent bias when it comes to Orlesians. Especially swanning nobles like Montclair." He sighed again. "You weren't there, Moira. Even if you've heard the tales, you don't truly know how they treated us, during…" His own voice now fell silent, and Moira returned his embrace, snuggling her face against his shoulder. Loghain had come so far in letting go of his festering hatreds and resentments since their love affair had blossomed, but she knew that his enmity for Orlais was a wound that might never fully heal.

"You're right. I don't know, and I'll never truly understand," she agreed. "But… you know Leliana now. You've met Stroud. I'm not asking you to forgive what the Orlesians did during the occupation, or give every Orlesian you meet the benefit of the doubt, but… perhaps you shouldn't see every Orlesian you meet through the prism of the war. They aren't all singly responsible for what was done to Ferelden."

He held her wordlessly for several long moments. "No," he finally said. "I suppose they aren't." He pulled away from her gently, and regarded her with a solemn expression. "But I cannot forget what their imperialism and arrogance allowed, and might allow again, someday. Orlais might not occupy Ferelden any longer, but the Empire hasn't truly changed. Celene was still scheming only a year ago to regain Ferelden in a bloodless coup. You cannot change the nature of the beast, no matter how much you might will it."

"Montclair is not Celene," she reminded him. "Not every Orlesian is an agent of the Empire."

"Perhaps not," he allowed. "But you'll allow an old man his well-earned aversion."

Moira could not help but smile. "As long as your 'well-earned aversion' doesn't get us into diplomatic hot water or create more problems than it solves," she said wryly.

Loghain harrumphed. "I highly doubt that Anora will appoint me to head up any Orlesian diplomatic delegations, so fret not."

"And thank the Maker for that. Ugh." She made a disgusted noise. "Grey Wardens, Orlesians, Denerim politics… this day has been far too tedious. Weren't you supposed to whisk me away to Gwaren and show me some beautiful seaside cliffs?"

"If the ship I chartered is still waiting at the docks," Loghain groused. "Let's see if we can make it without any more Maker-damned delays. If we don't leave soon, we won't have enough time to visit the teyrnir before the wedding."

The mention of their wedding sent a trill of joy through Moira's heart. "It would be nice to set my eyes on Gwaren before I return there as teyrna."

"Teyrna," Loghain murmured, raising a hand to trace a gentle finger along her jaw. "I never truly thought I would have occasion to call another woman that, after I lost my Celia." A moment passed, as his fingertips lingered against the soft skin of her cheek. "I think she would be happy to pass the mantle to you, my love."

Moira swallowed past a hard lump that had suddenly formed in her throat. She could think of no response to such poignant words, and so she simply placed her hand over his.

"Then take me home," she said.


End file.
